War and Unity
by The Secret Enigma
Summary: How Sparrow united Albion. Female Sparrow, Walter B. Rated T. Warnings at the start of chapters
1. Prologue

**I thought it was a good time for someone to write about how Sparrow unites Albion, so this is my take. I do not own the Fable games, characters, or locations, which belong to Lionshead Incorporated and Microsoft. Only the plot is my work. I only write for fun, and have not received payment for this story.**

**CHAPTER WARNINGS: Incidental mild language.**

Prologue

THE ROYAL ALBION HISTORICAL SOCIETY AND BINGO CLUB'S EXTRACT FROM:

_The Albion Civil War_ by Town Crier Doomsby of Southcliff

The political history of Albion has been predominantly turbulent. Subsequent to the age of the Old Kingdom, Albion was only a united country in name and in theory. Although distinguished from Samarkand, Aurora, and even Knothole Island, the cultures and societies that fall under the official name of _Albion _did not, originally, recognise any societal bonds between themselves, aside from optional co-operation for mutual welfare. Albion's socio-political culture was, for at least six centuries, based on the individual governments of city states, being single towns with specific surrounding regions. Although a leader would generally be addressed as 'mayor', these governments were not democracies. Rather, the governing individual of each city state inherited authority through blood. Therefore, the political climate in Albion was similar to that of a monarchy, albeit its fragmented nature.

Certainly, the initial mayor of a bloodline was elected. If a mayor died without a familial heir, an election would occur again to provide a new mayor. However, each town was an individual, self-contained political entity. At home, a citizen would adhere to the laws of the home-town. When visiting another area, the citizen was obliged to acknowledge the laws of the region in question. These conditions often created enormous tension between regions, regardless of attempts to trade extraterritorially, foster legal conformity, and forge military alliances between societies.

Laws, economic conditions, social customs, and cultural norms varied to such a degree, that many towns suffered the shortcomings of this system, rather than the advantages of a rich and varied society. Bloodstone, for example, endured a century of poor leadership and general debauchery under the authority of 'Mayor' Reaver, also known as the Hero of Skill, or, in the words of the Hero of Bowerstone, 'That irredeemable bastard; may he rot in a stagnant Hell of his own creation!' Naturally, the Hero of Bowerstone was the very person who united Albion's fractured societies in a war which is widely acknowledged: The Albion Civil War. However, although there is nobody unaware of this groundbreaking historical event, I am almost convinced that nobody besides myself and a select few scholars is aware of the specific events of this war.

Those who wish to understand the Albion Civil War, its causes, battles, and resolution, read on.


	2. Mourningwood Fort

**CHAPTER WARNINGS: Mild violence, incidental mild language, moderate sexual references.**

CHAPTER 1

Mourningwood Fort

'Hollow men approaching! Man the mortar! Get moving!' Soldiers in red and blue dashed efficiently across a courtyard, readying weapons and preparing fortifications.

Sparrow, the Hero of Bowerstone, drew her pistol and strode throught the fracas to stand beside Major Engells, who she had appointed as her partner whiile she oversaw the current operation. 'Ready there, Sparrow?' Engells inquired jovially.

'I'm ready,' Sparrow grinned. 'Just show me the target.'

Mourningwood Fort, a gothic fortress in the midst of the bog-drowned forest of Mourningwood, had recently been purchased by Sparrow. Sparrow had a unique purpose for this marshy, insect infested, hostile relic of the Old Kingdom. Over the course of several years, Sparrow had achieved much to advantage Albion's population. Among other contributions, Sparrow had founded and consolidated the Albion National Military, Albion's first national guard and army. Mourningwood Fort was the location of the designated graduation exam for recruits, as it provided a commodity unavailable anywhere else in the country: an infinite supply of hollow men. These thinking, fighting, resiliant creatures could be engaged in combat in conditions that were both reminiscent of wartime, yet stable and enclosed enough to ensure a relatively low likelihood of serious mishap occurring.

The hollow men in question hailed from the vast Mourningwood Graveyard, which had been abandoned since the Hero of Oakvale roamed the countryside: the original gravestones were predominantly unreadable. However, subsequent to the Bowerstone Cemetary becoming, in the tasteful words of the new gravekeeper, 'overbooked', Mourningwood was the new resting place of choice. Naturally, the wisps in the vicinity were delighted, regardless of the new mortar at the fort. Sparrow was particularly pleased with this innovation, as mortars and gunpowder were recent inventions, and it gave the Albion National Military an advantage over foreign invaders.

'You know', Sparrow casually remarked to Engells, as the mortar blasted its reverberating refrain, 'I find the use of haunted ground as a graveyard to be one of the most idiotic ideas that Bowerstone's present mayor has ever come up with … and he's come up with some truly stupid plans.'

'Yes,' Engells snorted, 'the man's a lechierous, bribe accepting, bureaucratic parasite. I wish heartily that you'd run for mayor. Heaven knows, Bowerstone would be a new city with you in charge.' Their attention was diverted by the splintering crack and crash of wood as the front gate was decimated. Sparrow cocked her pistol and fired five successive shots, shattering the first group of hollow men to lumber through the front gate. 'I was also thinking,' she continued, as she reloaded her pistol, 'those Eco Warrior sects are a liability to themselves. If that one group hadn't decided to settle in the middle of _this_ wilderness, the haunted graveyard wouldn't be an issue …. except to mourners, of course. We're probably going to have to keep the Fort staffed permanently now, assuming that we have enough soldiers.' Engells nodded, after which an infestation of hollow men burst into the Fort through every breachable orifice.

Sparrow fought with a primal, unrestrainable power: Her sword sliced and incapacitated faster than a balverine's claws, and her pistol-shots never flew wide of the target. However, Sparrow's personal appearance was more angelic than animalistic; Her glorious beauty and ethereal aura shone through the filth and gore of battle, and her spells surrounded her and her foes in a blinding haze of ice, fire, sparks, and rainbows. Only the inferno in her eyes betrayed the battle lust and instinctual ferocity she was experiencing. Engells, a hardy, experienced old soldier, fought with skill and valour. The recruits, similarly, fought with great valour, but marginally less skill, which evidenced their inferior years. This company of recruits had been predominantly satisfactory, and a few had gained special attention from Sparrow. There were two recruits, in particular, who Sparrow was observing intently.

The first, a dashing man, decimated countless hollow men that night with his dexterous bladework, and sported an exceptionally large handlebar mustache. The second, a feisty, fierce soldier, operated the newly invented mortar with supreme success, and uplifted his companions with sly remarks, patriotic war cries, and proud battle songs. The name of the former was John Swift, and the latter, Walter Beck. Sparrow believed that both men had enourmous potential, and had communicated her interest to Major Engells, who agreed to monitor their progress.

The night bellowed with the sounds of battle; shattering bone, thundering mortar, rumbling explosion, and the hoarse shouts of soldiers. The air was invaded with the sharp tang of gunpowder, and, on the nearby commune, the Eco Warriors sighed, and shook their heads: They believed that the commission of a national army would disrupt the tenuous peace that Albion was experiencing in its relations between settlements. Sparrow had become exasperated with the Eco Warrior community, which was expanding rapidly, and integrating itself into some gypsy communities, including Sparrow's old home at Bower Lake. She had been continually unable to make them understand that their goal of national peace was more likely to come to fruition with the security engendered by a national military force. Sparrow had also ceased her attempts to reassure them that her soldiers were a protective measure, rather than a mechanism to initiate a war.

The hollow men waned at intervills throughout the night, allowing some respite, and the opportunity for Sparrow to tend the infrequent wounds that were sustained. This routine had been a standard practice at the fort for twelve months, as each company received between one week and one month of this monitored, practical training. Sparrow had been present for the majority of this time, mentoring recruits and overseeing their training. She pined after her husband and children, and she missed Serenity Farm. However, Sparrow realised that the war she had foreseen was becoming imminent. An efficient, sizeable army was a necessity. Her influence over the soldier community was of paramount importance, due to the necessity for her judgement and moral intentions to be deemed trustworthy when the time of conflict arrived.

Albion had been susceptible to assault since the collapse of the Heroes' Guild. Cities, towns, and farming estates alike relied on a pre-precribed number of trained guards, who were talented, yet lamentably few in number. This issue was compounded by their unwillingness to undertake any mission that did not directly relate to the welfare of their contracted region: The guards would only ensure peace and order in their own district, and distributed extraterritorial missions to bounty hunters. In the event that Sparrow was in their vicinity, they delivered a list of the most dangerous bounty missions to her. It was an unavoidable fact that if Albion had to withstand either an external threat, or an internal schism, there was a microscopic probability of survival; in the former case, Albion would be invaded; in the latter, the fueding societies would fall upon one another like wolves upon sheep, and possibly continue until the stage of imminent extinction. Furthermore, travelling communities, such as gypsies and the newly introduced Eco Warriors, were not granted a guard allotment, due to their transient nature. These communities, which reserved rich cultural traditions and historic knowledge, were likely to perish in the coming of war if conditions did not alter.

Another prominent complexity was Albions legal system, or rather, systems. The legal systems of Albion varied from region to region, and ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous. For example, in Oakvale, the Temple of Light had recently banned alcohol and published a book about the moral appropriateness of intimacy (titled _Don't Do It_, with subtitle _If You Must, Do it This Way_); then there was Bloodstone, which continued to exist without a Mayor, and without any semblance of a legal system. The Mayor of Bowerstone, Albert Mumble, was a weak, corrupt ruler, and Sparrow had expressed concern over his policies on numerous occasions. However, a brief 'meeting' at his mansion, and a poorly veiled threat, ensured that Sparrow's ability to oppose him was impeded, for the present. Sparrow sighed as she sipped water during a lull in the battle. She closed her eyes and brooded over the interview with Mayor Mumble.

_Sparrow sat in a plush chair facing a mahogany desk. At the opposite side of the desk, Mumble lounged on his chair, sipping strong wine, and gazing lewdly at Sparrow, which she did not remotely appreciate. 'I am most interested,' Mumble said silkily, 'to know why the Hero of Bowerstone, who is so very _fond_ of Albion, threw away the opportunity to become Mayor of Bowerstone. Would it not have been ideal? You could have been untouchable, had everything exactly how you wanted it. You could have enacted all your idealistic reforms and … er … such. And the people of this city just _adore_ you, too. They were practically _begging_ you to take this position.'_

'_I am aware of these issues,' Sparrow replied, halting Mumble's wandering gaze with her steady, firm glance, 'My reply to you, and to anyone else who wants to know, is that I am not destined for political authority yet.' _

'_So, there will be another time in the future, yes?' Mumble interjected oilily, gazing into her challenging eyes._

'_I believe there will,' Sparrow returned, 'but rest assured, it will not be by my choice. Rather, it will be … fate, destiny - call it what you will.' Mumble stood slowly, his insincere smile fading into a scowl of dissatisfaction. 'Enough games, _hero_. You have exhibited dissatisfaction with my rules, which, I will remind you, I make on my authority as Mayor of Bowerstone. You could have posessed this authority yourself, and therefore cannot presume to criticise _me_. I do not appreciate being told how to do my job, especially when the supposedly _selfless_ interloper was too much of a coward to accept the role herself.'_

_Sparrow stood, overshadowing the stunted, pug-nosed politician. She spoke softly, yet the icy iron of her words struck terror into Mumble: 'I would not be "interfering" if you cared about your office, and your citizens. You are incompetent, you accept bribes, and your election campaign was entirely dishonest. Nobody expects miracles, but you have failed to honour a single contract, or electoral promise, and the economy and living conditions in this town have deteriorated drastically. That madman, Lucian, was a better mayor. Furthermore, you are far too friendly with numerous public officials in other settlements, which is unethical in you position, as they all appear to be involved in a vendetta with you … and are protected in their violations by the power vested in you as mayor of Albion's largest city. Even with the current prohibition in Oakfield, your friend Brighman is smuggling supplies of liquor and prostitutes into his house, Bloodstone's become, against all odds, a worse place to be, and politicians are taking advantage of citizens at every corner.'_

_Mumble chuckled, his smile returning. Sparrow was infinitely more perturbed by this smile than Mumble's scowls; in spite of the fear that still haunted his eyes, this was a _sincere_ smile, a wicked smile. 'Indeed, Madam,' he replied gloatingly, 'I have many, if you'll excuse the cliché, friends in high places. None higher than me, but then, that's how I get the leverage I need. Just think, my dear. Your husband is so well protected. If he, say, met with an accident, who could possibly have bypassed your security measures but … you? And my fellow _conspirators_ would be more than happy to employ capital punishment. Your children, of course, would be well provided for: My brother, interestingly enough, is in charge of the Child Protection Agency at present, and has been implementing some _outstanding_, budget cutting reforms. I'm sure he'd honour your final wishes and look after them._

_Although Mumble was a weak ruler and an inadequate excuse for a man, Sparrow realised the deadly possibilities that his threats engendered. He did have a wide circle of influence, and the fragmentation of Albion's political culture ensured that he could not be easily checked in his quest for personal power. If he truly intended to carry out his threat, he would eventually succeed, because she could not guard her family indefinitely, nor could they simply hide at Serenity Farm indefinitely. She gazed disdainfully at the bloated man. 'Careful, Mumble,' she intoned menacingly. 'I do not intend to usurp you, nor do I wish to do anything _"illegal"_. However, if you do anything to my husband, children, or myself, you will find that your life may be somewhat shorter than expected.' When Mumble opened his mouth to retort, she interjected, 'I didn't threaten you in any way. I merely said that, under certain circumstances, you may find that you do not live particularly long. After all,' and she smiled ironically, despite the disgust that she felt, 'there are _so_ many ways that you can die in this world.'_

Sparrow opened her eyes, gazing wearily at the soldiers churning around her. The meeting with Mumble had occurred eighteen months previously; six months before the first company of her handpicked soldiers had arrived for practical experience in Mourningwood. Sparrow brooded, morbidly thinking how the day she conferred with Mumble was the beginning of the end of her life. Sparrow's gift of foresight warned her that the war would occur soon, and that she would subsequently embark on her final quest: the quest of a Queen. She also suspected that the enemy would not be a foreign body, but of a more devious kind. People are susceptible to destruction by misfortune, disease, murder, violence, and a plethora of external threats. However, the most devious and disturbing of all the ways in which to expire is when the body wages war on itself. Such maladies as cancers, or those unusual eventualities when the body consumes or destroys itself, are the most insidious of all diseases. Similarly, Albion's enemy would come from within its own body: the war would be a civil war.

As the sun sluggishly peeked into Mourningwood, and sifted through the stagnant, green haze of the bog, the hollow men abandoned their efforts, and the company was able to recuperate. Men and women sat, leaned, and reclined on the ground and available surfaces, eating, drinking, sleeping, chatting, laughing, and tending weapons. After an hour of recreation, Sparrow stood on a chair and made the announcement she had planned.

'Soldiers of the Albion National Military!' Sparrow orated, 'I have watched your progress with great interest these last two weeks, and Major Engells and myself are pleased with the dedication, honour, and ability that you have all, without exception, displayed. The field of battle, whether in the streets of your hometown, or on the plains of a war-torn region, is brutal and draining. You have succeeded in a practical test which is no less than one of the more challenging and deadly battlefields in the country. I am pleased to announce that, at the close of the next night's trials, we shall depart Mourningwood Fort, and celebrate the close of your initial training at the Brightwall tavern at sundown!' Sparrow's announcement was greeted with ecstatic cheers and applause, after which Sparrow added, 'In addition, I am proud to inform you that, as this is the final company I have selected for our military body, the recruit training program is now complete. As long as you all remain steadfast to your country, and your brothers and sisters in arms, Albion now has a united army!' More riotous enthusiasm erupted throughout the Fort. Sparrow smilled joyously, and looked up into the brightening sky.

While Mourningwood Fort basked in an explosion of merriment and triumph, a covert group of one hundred men camped in a distant clearing in the forest. They were generally athletically inclined, muscular, and dark of eye and hair. They dressed in well-tailored, travel sodden garments. All were tense, and ill at ease, excepting one. This one, midnight eyed, black haired and authoritative, leaned languidly against the root of a tree, gazing lustfully at a frame he held in his hands. Suddenly, one of the men returned from reconassaince, and approached this individual. Bowing low, he said, 'My Lord, the Mourningwood Company depart tomorrow.'

'My Lord' smiled wolfishly. 'Excellent,' he growled. 'Tell the others to convene. It is time to finalise our strategy of attack.'

'Very well, My Lord,' the spy replied, turning to execute the order.

As the spy walked away, the leader of the group lovingly stroked the canvas of the framed picture he held in his hands:

It was a miniature of the Hero of Bowerstone, decked in a sky blue gown with a diamond encrusted brooch, her golden hair cascading around her shoulders, and sapphire eyes smiling gently at the world.


	3. War and Geese

**CHAPTER WARNINGS: Incidental mild language.**

CHAPTER 3

War and Geese

'Get out, you stupid fowl!' Bob, more generally known in Oakfield as 'Sparra's 'usband', gripped the struggling chicken that, unbeknownst to him, had been contentedly roosting in his armchair when he sat down with his morning coffee. The hen had taken offence, and accordingly applied its beak to Bob's rear. Bob threw the offending bird out the front door, in the general direction of the chicken coop, where it landed with a disgruntled cluck and a ruffle of feathers. 'Bloody chicken,' he muttered, rubbing at the coffee stains on his previously clean shirt.

Although far from scintillating, this eventuality was a relatively exciting occurrence in Bob's peaceful, ordered life, and Bob was determined to keep his life that way. He was living in a way he had only ever dreamed of before he married Sparrow. His home, Serenity Farm, was the most beautiful and secure location that he was aware of, and he had not had to forfeit his bohemian, gypsy lifestyle for suburbn security; rather, the farm offered a perfect compromise between both lifestyles. Bob had married the woman he cherished, and she had blessed him with two intelligent, happy children, who adored both their parents. They had money in excess, and could afford to raise their family bountifully, while simultaneously assisting the less fortunate. Bob had many friends in Oakfield, a town he liked immensely, and his calling as a househusband permitted him to pursue his interests and indulge in copiuous amounts of time with his offspring. In addition, his treasured wife was beautiful, virtuous, kind, loving, intelligent, sensual, brave, and charitable. There were many men and women who were envious of Bob's happy destiny.

However, Bob had discovered that bliss is heavily priced, and had sacrificed what many would consider exhorbitant in order to attain these rewards. Although Bob and Sparrow grew up together, and had been lovers before she began her life of heroism, Sparrow had refused to marry Bob until Lucian was defeated. Sparrow was fearful that, if Lucian discovered Bob's importance to her, Bob would be murdered, tortured, or used to blackmail her. Thus, Bob waited two decades before they became husband and wife, and refused to accept the hand of any other woman. His determination to wait for Sparrow extended to the ten hopeless years which Sparrow spent as a captive in the Tattered Spire, when Bob realised that, each day she was absent, her death was more probable. In addition, although blessed with surpassing joy and plenty, Bob had reaped the penalties of being a hero's husband: Sparrow was frequently absent, generally in peril, and could disappear with little warning for days, weeks, or months, with no correspondence to reassure loved ones. This aspect of life was harsh, not only for Bob, but for their children, Logan and Marion, who missed their mother immensely.

While Bob brooded on his past, he changed into a clean shirt and prepared a fresh cup of coffee. 'Most people wouldn't hold onto someone like Sparrow, whatever rewards they thought they were going to get,' he thought. 'It's such a huge sacrifice to be married to any type of hero, and so many men aren't that comfortable with being the homemaker. I wouldn't want it any other way, though. Even if we've hardly seen her for over a year.' Bob sighed, and sipped his beverage.

The day progressed in the languid, comfortable manner that was usual for the household. Bob began to prepare breakfast, and was presently greeted by his children, as they descended the stairs on their route to play outside. When breakfast was ready, they assembled at the table to partake of the porridge that Bob had served. Marion attempted, as she generally did, to dollop half the contents of the honey jar into her bowl before her father noticed. A rebuke brought a brief pout, before she attacked her breakfast. Bob noticed that Logan appeared tense, and occurrence which was becoming increasingly frequent. Bob was unable to glean the cause of Logan's distress from his son, and was concerned.

After the breakfast crockery had been washed and put away, the children's tutors arrived, and they went into the study-room for lessons. Bob went outside to work on a gift he was preparing for Sparrow: a wardrobe, elegantly carved with roses, vines, and cheerful, delicate sparrows. He was soon interrupted by the voice of the Oakfield Demon Door, the watchman of their abode.

'My good man, your friend Silus is outside, and he desires to speak with you urgently. He seems most flustered.' Bob stood and stretched a cramped muscle. 'Alrighty, then, let him in.' The cliffside at the end of the path shimmered, and dissolved in to a mottled blue portal, through which Silus appeared. The portal closed behind the man, melding once more into stone.

There was little of note about Silus. He was a farmer, single, and perfectly content with everything that these characteristics entail. He worked hard, drank hard, and loved to sing, the latter of which was not well loved by the Oakfield community. He was also generous, kind, and had a fantastic sense of humour. He looked far from jolly at present, however, as he approached Bob with long strides. 'Bob,' he said, crossing his arms and looking grim, 'Oakfield's under attack.'

'What?' Bob cried, shocked and disbelieving.

''We're bein' invaded, or sumthing,' Silus elaborated. 'Ye know how our new soldiers frum yer wife's army had te go help Bowerstone out of sum mess or another while they waited for their last batch? Well, they left our regular gaards 'ere, but the watchmen came harin' back to town, saying ta ring the town bell, that an army's comin. They aint from our side o' the world, either. All forin looking, and they just attacked the watchmen. I wanted to warn you. Don't leave the farm, Bob. Now,' he began, as Bob started to protest, 'ye may be marrid te a hero, man, but ye aint one yerself. Sparra brought ye here t'keep ye safe. Personally, even if you c'n thrash a trained army, I don't suppose that ye'll survive yer wife's temper when she get's 'ome and finds that you were playin' heros.'

Bob sighed, and replied, 'You're right. Do you think we should try and get some others in here to keep them safe?'

'No time, 'm afraid,' Silus replied. 'They're in town now, those forin bastards. I can sneak out here alright, but they'll just follow everyone here, and ye may not be safe if they know yer here: they seem te have wizards or sumthin.'

'What about food, though?' Bob questioned. He was answered by a resounding, booming chuckle. 'Food?' The Demon Door rumbled, 'my good man, this place is paradise on earth. Did you think I wasn't prepared for sieges? It's difficult magic, of course, so I only do it when needs must, but you can live here for the rest of your life without leaving the Farm if you have to. Honestly, the old heroes would have been horrified at the thought of a secure paradise without rations! They were so fond of the good things in life, saints included.'

Bob stroked his chin thoughtfully. 'Door, will you let me know what's going on outside?'

'Certainly,' the Door answered. 'I wouldn't want anything to happen to you people. I've become unethically fond of you all.'

'Alright, then,' Silus said brusquely, clapping Bob's shoulder. 'Wish me luck. If ye don't see me alive again, just remember that I value your friendship, and yer wife's friendship, above any other relaytionships in my life.'

'Shouldn't you stay where it's safe?' Bob inquired tentatively.

'They're goin' te need the extra fighters out there, we're short as't is,' Silus returned firmly. 'Besides, I don't 'ave a famly dependin' on me. Take care, Bob!'

As silus bolted to the portal and disappeared, a disturbing thought occurred to Bob: 'Where's Sparrow?'

…

Outside Oakfield, on the crest of a hill, stood an enigmatic woman. She was robed and hooded in garments of white and blue, rendering her face invisible. Her figure pulsed with the aura of a hero, or possibly a supernatural entity. She attentively observed the disconcertingly strong army which had converged to occupy the peaceful town of Oakfield, The screams of women cries of men, clash of steel and crack of gunshots could be heard atop the hill. The woman spoke: 'Are you certain about this, Sandy?'

Beside her stood a goose; plump, white, unremarkable. It spoke: 'I'm ready. Just say the word.'

**Thanks for reading. I'm going to continue working on this, so I'd really appreciate feedback, suggestions, things you'd like to see in the story, etc.**


	4. The Siege of Mourningwood Fort

**Hello, and thanks for reading! Just a reminder that I own none of the things pertaining to the Fable franchise. Also, some of this chapter, and probably future chapters, are inspired by the contents of _The Balverine Order_ Fable Novel, but I don't actually use the characters and locations. Also, thanks for reviewing (you know who you are :)**

**CHAPTER WARNINGS: Moderate violence, mild language, mild suggestive themes.**

CHAPTER 4

The Siege of Mourningwood Fort

**MOURNINGWOOD**

Exhaustion eventually subdued the triumphant atmosphere at Mourningwood Fort. The soldiers, including Sparrow and Major Engells, retired to their sleeping rolls. The allotted morning watch, Walter Beck among them, paced the battlements, peering over the forest landscape as they searched for hostile activity. They noticed a lone traveller on the road, approaching the fort.

When the traveller reached the fort, he halted, and gazed up at the battlements. 'Hello, up there!' he hallooed, 'May I have a moment of your time?'

'Go ahead!' Walter replied.

'This is, I gather, the much discussed Mourningwood Fort Operation?' the man questioned, his voice charismatic and deep.

'Aye,' replied Walter.

'Is the Hero of Bowerstone, perchance, present?' the stranger continued.

'Aye, she is,' Walter answered.

'In that case, would it be possible for me to share a word with her?' was the stranger's next question. 'I won't disturb her much. I'll simply call up to her from here. I have no secrets, after all.' The journeyman smiled suavely as he made this statement, yet somehow, his teeth seemed unnervingly sharp. Walter considered his request, glancing quizzically towards the other watchmen. Then he called back, 'Major Sparrow's resting at the moment. Can I give her a message?'

'I'm afraid not,' the man replied, 'It's no secret, but I do need to tell her myself.'

After further consideration, Walter inquired, 'Is it important?'

'Indeed,' came the reply. 'I could go so far to say that it's a matter of life and death.

'Alright,' Walter decided, 'one moment.'

When Sparrow had rubbed her bleary eyes open, she followed Walter to the front battlements, and examined the man carefully. He smiled up at her, politely waiting for permission to proceed. Walter noticed Sparrow's frown, before she turned to him and said urgently, 'Recruit Beck, fetch Major Engells for me … discreetly'. As he hurried to perform this request, a tangle of apprehension materialised low in Sparrow's belly, and a spark of recognition ignited in her mind. Her foresight and her instincts were warning her; something was wrong.

When Engells arrived, Sparrow turned to him: 'Engells, a man below wants to see me. He's from Strathford, in eastern Albion.' Engells wrinkled his forehead into a frown, peered at the man below, and looked back to Sparrow, puzzled. 'How can you tell?'

'His clothes,' Sparrow answered. 'They're very distinctive. That very unique red and gold design with the balverine insignia indicates that he is a high ranking member of Strathford society. It's not found anywhere else in the world.'

Sparrow had visited eastern Albion for a year at one stage in her life, in order to learn about this wild and arcane portion of Albion. Westerners rarely adjourned to the east, as the two halves of Albion were separated by the vast, inland salt-sea known as the Kraken Sea. Naturally, it was not only the size and fierceness of this geographical feature that discouraged travellers and traders. The foreboding name was off-putting, despite the fact that an actual sea monster had not been spied in living memory.

Eastern Albion was older and more arcane than Western Albion, and had developed, technologically and socially, marginally little since the Age of Heroes. Those who survived the storm wrecked, vast waters of the Kraken Sea, and arrived on the shores of the mysterious east, were soon accosted by criminals, slavers, balverines, hobbes, trolls, and sinister beings whose names are unknown to the living. Entering the east was alike to passing through a portal into the past. However, there was no longer a Hero's Guild to ward away the evils of the wild.

Although the Hero's Guild had been located in western Albion, being one of the first areas to be developed west of the Kraken Sea after the fall of the Old Kingdom, the heroes' teleportation techniques ensured that they could protect the east and the west with equal success. Furthermore, shpping consignments could hire heroes to protect them from the wrath of krakens, pirates, and angry sea-gulls. Therefore, travel had been comparatively commonplace between the two sides of the continent, until the fall of the Guild, and the disappearance and death of all the heroes. However, the east was significantly more vulnerable in the absence of the Guild, as the lack of technological developments, such as firearms, mechanical devices, and fast carriages, had left settlements fragmented, and open to attack by monsters and bandits.

Sparrow's visit to the east had been discreet, and she had not overtly publicised her heroic abilities, touting herself instead as a wandering adventurer and monster slayer. She had visited Strathford, the town that she suspected the mysterious traveller to hail from, and remembered it as one of the most magnificent towns of the east: grand architecture, generally impressive living conditions, beautiful art and craftsmanship, and a rich cultural heritage. The distinctive outfit this adventurer wore was a masculine, aristocratic style, yet Sparrow's trained eyes recognised it as a military suit. She felt the electricity at the back of her mind expand, tingling at first, then shooting violently down her spine in a flush of energy. 'This is it,' she thought. 'Why here, though? There must be a reason. This isn't a town or city, so it's of no value to them.'

'Men, 'Sparrow commanded the watchmen quietly, 'There's something wrong. Wake everyone, and get them ready to fight. _Discreetly_, Benjamin.' The aforementioned Benjamin had been striding towards the alarm bell. 'There may be nothing to worry about. Recruit Beck, you stay here. Engells, take the lead in the courtyard.' The soldiers saluted before scattering to their tasks.

Sparrow leaned over the battlement and called graciously down to the visitor: 'Greetings, sir. I'm Sparrow, the Hero of Bowerstone. What brings a denizen of the east to this remote area of Albion? It's not the finest place for adventuring, unless you specialise in eliminating hollow men.'

The man stepped forward. He was, Sparrow noticed, exceptionally handsome, in an alluring, physically powerful way, yet his dark features and pale skin enhanced an unpleasant aura that she perceived surrounding him. 'My lady,' he called, bowing, 'I knew who you were the instant I saw you. You were in my hometown some time ago: I'm sure you recall Strathford?' When Sparrow did not answer, he continued: 'You did not make your identity known, but I am sure you are aware of the great admiration that all Strathfordians hold for you. I, personally, realised that there was something unique about you, and I knew immediately, when I first heard of the great Hero of Bowerstone, that it could be none but you.'

'I am flattered that the people of the east regard me so highly, remote as I must seem to them,' Sparrow replied, 'but I believe that you have some urgent information to impart to me.'

'Madam,' he replied, grinning in a disconcertingly predatorial manner, 'I have always been of the opinion that actions speak louder than words.'

Immediately, two things occurred simultaneously: Sparrow started as the man below her doubled over, arching his back, and began to morph. His clothes split and ripped apart violently, and he began to grow and sprout fur across his body. Ten seconds later, an enourmous, white belverine stood leering up at Sparrow. At the same moment that this transformation began, a sudden outbreak of fearsome howling emanated from the forest surrounding the fort.

To the soldiers' credit, they all held their ground. However, not a man or woman was left unsurprised, as Mourningwood was not a popular habitat for balverines. Sparrow quickly bolted to the inner side of the battlement, and shouted her orders: 'To your battlestations! Balverine attack! Don't let them get into the fort! Recruit Beck, you stay with me.' Walter nodded and readied his pistol. The other recruits immediately secured all possible entry points, and waited for the balverines to reveal their positions.

Sparrow and Walter remained on the battlement, peering into the forest below. 'Major,' Walter said softly, 'it's unusual for a full-scale Balverine attack in broad daylight, especially with the variety that can transform at will, and still have a human form.'

'Yes,' Sparrow answered, 'unless they have special plans. This isn't a skirmish. This is the beginning of a war, Beck.' Walter glanced at her inquisitively, but his query died on his lips as a huge balverine leaped unexpectedly from a treetop where it had been camouflaged, as effortlessly as a child jumps acros a puddle. It landed violently between Sparrow and Walter, and slashed out with its claws in Walter's direction. When Walter leaped backwards to avoid the deadly, wickedly curved implements, the balverine pounced on Sparrow, pinning her to the ground. She attempted to draw her pistol, but the beast pinned her arms to her sides with its front paws, and threw her over its shoulder, before turning and preparing to return to the treetops. Sparrow began to formulate a spell, but the strangeness of this event did not elude her. 'Suerely it isn't trying to _kidnap_ me?' she wondered. Her incantation proved unecessary: As swift as the balverine was, Walter was swifter. He fired a skilfully aimed bullet into the beast's neck, which snapped its head forward with the impact. The balverine toppled, dying instantly.

'Thanks, Beck,' Sparrow gasped from beneath the crushing bulk of the creature, 'tell the others that we're fine, and to continue as ordered.' While Walter complied, Sparrow managed to dislodge the body, and stood, breathless yet prepared, with pistol drawn. Around them, there was a deafening cacophony of roars, immediately prior to the appearance of at least one hundred balverines, entirely surrounding the fort, and galloping towards the walls.

'Rifles and pistols at the ready!' Sparrow cried, cocking her own weapon. The fort echoed with the click of safety latches being released. 'Fire at will!' Sparrow commanded, before releasing five bullets swiftly into various portions of a balverine's anatomy. Below her, the beast yowled in pain and toppled over, immobilised. Firearms cracked and popped, and several of the monsters yelped and howled in agony as bullets lodged in their internal tissue. However, balverines were a potent, resilient breed, and could generally only be killed by firearm if the bullet lodged in their brains, or if they the ammunition was silver. Otherwise, the wisest strategy was to immobilise them at the joints, as Sparrow was, and make the fatal blow with melee or will techniques. However, only Sparrow and Walter had reflexes that matched their opponents' speed to a great enough degree to attempt this strategy without assistance. In addition, most soldiers of the time favoured rifles, which where powerful, yet frustratingly slow.

After some fifteen minutes of ranged combat, during which the creatures were too close to the fort to utilise the mortar, Sparrow altered her tactics: 'Cease your fire! Draw melee weapons and maintain fortifications! Only fight if they attempt to enter!' After organising a watch to ensure that no more monsters entered by leaping from the treetops, she noticed Engells running towards her, his expression puzzled and concerned. John Swift was striding at his side. 'Engells,' Sparrow said, 'come with me. You too, Recruit Beck and Recruit Swift.' They strode to an alcove, were they could not be overheard, and Sparrow spoke: 'I assume that you've all realised that they're provoking us?'

'Yes,' Engells replied gruffly, 'I've killed one, I think, and you and Beck have incapacitated a few, but even the injured ones aren't flagging. Pity we don't have any silver bullets left.'

'That's not all,' Sparrow interjected, 'They're not truly attacking us. They're baiting us. They're acting as if they want to use up our ammunition, as if the ones in front are cannon-fodder. And it's working! Now I say, if they want to fight, they must fight. No more shooting, unless they breach the walls. We'll keep the fortifications, and use melee strategy from here.'

'Major Sparrow,' Walter cut in sharply, 'Look!' They all turned, following the line of Walter's gaze: the body of the 'kidnapper' balverine that he and Sparrow had encountered had disappeared, appareantly of its own volition.

'I'll be damned!' exclaimed Engells. 'Are these creatures undead?'

'I don't know,' replied Sparrow, 'but I don't like this. We'd better warn the soldiers that these beasts aren't what they seem.'

And so, this information imparted, the Mourningwood Fort company waited. And waited. When the ceasefire began, the balverines disappeared into the forest. Two hours passed with little action, save the occasional hulking figure on the edge of the trees, reminding the humans trapped within the fort that their enemy was still at hand. Then, the combat began as suddenly as it had ceased: titanic bodies began throwing themselves against gates and windows, attempting to break into the fort. 'Steady, soldiers!' Sparrow cried, attempting to help brace the front gate. However, it could not last long, for as strong as Sparrow was, there was one of her, and a hundred of the balverines (all of whom seemed to have recovered from their bullet wounds). As the gates splintered and snapped, the monsters seethed into the fort's courtyard, slashing, biting, charging, and roaring, Soldiers everywhere cried out in fierce unity, before rushing at the beasts.

Every man and woman fought for life. Sparrow ran at a beast, sword raised, and blocked its claws, then swung her sword as she turned a sharp circle, slicing the metal across its chest on her return, and finishing by sinking the blade hilt-deep into its chest. It collapsed without knowing how it died. Swift did not attempt to land fatal blows, instead targeting joints and tendon with his sword, ducking attacks and allowing the less experienced recruits to band together and mete out death to the prostrated balverine. Walter, now faced with close range enemies, was able to lodge many bullets in many sensitive areas of balverine anatomy with his trusty pistol. A young female recruit, Lucy Parker, employed various rougiush tactics, such as backstabs, or provoking a beast, then stabbing into its throut as is opened its mouth in preperation to maul her. The battle raged, with no lenity on either side, for the remainder of the day.

**OAKFIELD**

Bob, the children, and the tutors, Christopher Char and Ella Trevors, sat anxiously at the kitchen table. They were listening to the Demon Door's running commentary on the battle raging in town, which ran thus:

'They're coming in, now. They're marching in, perfectly in unison: a splendid sight! They're wearing red and gold, and their standard is a white balverine howling at a golden moon, with red blood dripping from its fangs and claws. They seem to have done away with our watchmen, though. There are a good five hundred of them, I'm afraid. Oh, goodness, the gaurds and some village men are taking them on. Oh, splendid strike, my good fellow! Yes, good, our side is doing splend - ah, well, the spearmen got to them. Honourable men, though, those villagers … The guards are still doing well … OH, that must have HURT! Ohh, watch out! No, my man, behind you! Er, they've taken down all twenty of our men. I suppose the odds weren't good for them, but it is such a pity. The women and children are running for the houses, bolting themselves in. They're terrified, they don't know what to do. They're screaming, crying … that one's struggling with her old grandfather, trying to get him to the house. Oh no, not the old man you bast .. I mean,' noticing Bob's pointed cough, 'nasty people.' Marion whimpered and clung to Bob's arm, and Logan continued to look ill as the door continued:

'Oh, wait, one of the women's come to fight them off the old man and his granddaughter. She's a fine gel, should have been a soldier! Ah, the old one and the girl have gotten into the house. The other one isn't doing well, though, the one that came to help them. She's not dead, but they've got her … she may wish she _had_ died soon. The other enemies are swarming around, but they're not doing much … Oh, they've found two women hiding. The one looks quite young, the other's quite a pretty lass. Oh, I can't bear to look … wait a moment! Bob, your friend Silus is quite the fighter! He fought those soldiers off the women, and he only used his wood-axe! They're all dead, and the girls are running to safety! There are more village men appearing to fight the soldiers off. Bravo! They may not last too long, though. I fear we've lost. No, it's all over now. They've just taken the men prisoner, including Silus, and there are no soldiers on our side left alive. They're starting to break into houses, and drag the women out … you know how they do. The children are terrified. HOW DARE YOU HIT A DEFENCELESS CHILD!' The poor Door, being a sensitive soul, sobbed. However, a moment later, he exclaimed in astonishment. 'What in Heaven's name … no, surely not! I don't believe what I'm seeing! It's the chickens! They're all attacking the invaders! They're pecking and clawing, and ganging together to knock people over. And the geese! And the crows, too! There's a multitude of birds attacking the invaders… I really don't believe it! That GOOSE is BREATHING FIRE! It's setting whole groups of men aflame! Oh, and that person's new! A woman, robed and hooded, and using magic! You rarely see mages _these_ days.

Bob remembered what his wife had told him about Theresa, and asked the Door, 'Are the robes red and white?'

'No,' the door replied, 'they're blue and white. And I think that our livestock just got us out of an invasion!'

**I hope you enjoyed Chapter 4! If you have anything you want to say, e.g. suggestions, things you want to see in the story, etc., put it down in my Fable forum.**


	5. An Old Friend

**Hi there. Back with Chapter 5. Please Read and Review. Same disclaimers as usual apply. Hope you enjoy it!**

**CHAPTER WARNINGS: MODERATE VIOLENCE, MINOR SUGGESTIVE THEMES, SOME LANGUAGE.**

CHAPTER 5

AN OLD FRIEND

Hours of intense combat found twenty nine of the one hundred balverines dead. However, twenty of the eighty soldiers in Sparrow's company also lay lifeless on the ground, weapons by their sides. Furthermore, any little encouragement to be gleaned from the defeat of the slain balverines evaporated when the bodies, like that of the 'kidnapper' balverine, bolted upright, once again filled with life, and re-joined the fray. Sparrow realised that this breed was far mightier than most, and probably hailed from the bloodlines originating in the Age of Heroes. In the instance that she was correct, they could undoubtedly only be slain with the use of silver. Naturally, there was no silver of any form at the fort, as nobody had expected it to be a necessity. The fight continued throughout the day, following a weary pattern; the balverines would attack, were defeated, and were mauled continuously as they lay prostrate on the ground, then nonetheless went on to recover and continued to fight. However, Sparrow noticed a more sinister aspect to this routine: They did not kill any more of her soldiers subsequent to the initial twenty fatalities, instead wounding, mauling, or pursuing anybody who opposed them. 'They're trying to exhaust us,' Sparrow realised, 'to keep us fighting. But why?'

As Sparrow had feared, the balverines retreated into the forest as the sun began to set, leaving an exhausted, depleated host facing the imminent attack of hundreds of hollow men. Sparrow had to think fast. 'Engells, Beck, Swift, come with me,' she shouted. They convened in an alcove, unheeded by other soliders, who rushed to eat, drink, rest, and mourn fallen companions before they once again rallied to survive. 'Listen,' Sparrow said urgently, 'the balverines don't want to defeat us. They're trying to keep us here. They attack in the day, then let the hollow men do their work at night. This is probably part of something bigger, and I think they want most of us alive. I don't like this at all. We can't kill them, not without silver weapons. We need to get some silver weapons, and also some additional soldiers. Beck, I have a special mission for you. Our victory depends on your success'

'Yes, Major!' Walter Beck answered, saluting.

'What I'm about to say is not to leave this group,' Sparrow continued, 'there's a passage out of the fort, that leads towards Mistpeak Valley. Take the tunnel, get to Brightwall, and get the soldiers I've stationed there to trap the balverines between themselves and the fort. Brightwall is one of the key garrisons in our operation, so there'll be enough men to bring with you without emptying the town of protection. Also, bring all the silver weaponry and ammunition you can carry. Don't get caught!'

'Yes, Major!' Beck exclaimed, 'I'll get onto it immediately!'

'Is there anything pressing you have to do first?' Sparrow asked him. 'If so, do it now, _without_ revealing your mission.'

'Thank you, Major!' Walter saluted, and bolted away to run his preliminary errands.

'Now, men,' Sparrow continued, turning to Engells and Swift, 'we need to keep as many of us alive as possible until help comes. I think you both know that, even with greater numbers and some silver weaponry, our chances of success are limited. We will probably have to come to an understanding with the balverines, and find out why they're doing this. For now, the soldiers need to work in shifts, in order to get some rest, but the hollow men aren't going to go easy on us because we're tired. This is what we're going to do: I can keep going longer than most, so I'll rig all the entrances with spell barriers, and I'll keep them solid through the night so no hollow men can enter the fort at all. Engells and Swift, you two take turns in commanding the units and turning over shifts so that everyone gets some rest. The mortar is very important, as I want you to try and ensure that the majority of hollow men are killed long before they get to the walls. Get some artillery units to shoot the ones that get too close, but try to conserve ammunition.'

'Sparrow, the magic's going to drain you damnebly,' Engells protested. 'I don't want to save everyone else's lives, only to lose you.'

'Don't worry,' Sparrow reassured him, 'if I can't handle it any more, let everyone take arms at close-range for an hour or so. We should still survive: the main thing is for everyone to be prepared for the balverines tomorrow. Hollow men are far easier to handle. They also die - in their own, special way,' she smiled sardonically.

While Sparrow formulated her strategy with Engells and Swift, she noticed that Walter was conversing with Lucy Parker. She felt unexpectedly uneasy when she saw them kiss before he broke away to return to Sparrow, but she ensured that neither Walter nor anybody else was aware that she had noticed anything. 'I'm ready. Major!' Walter saluted.

'Good,' Sparrow said, 'Follow me, Beck. Engells, arrange the troops, and make sure they don't see where I'm taking Beck.'

'Alright, soldiers, your orders for the night!' Engells began preparing the battlefield, as Sparrow and Walter discreetly scurried into an alcove which was set into a wall that cut into the neighbouring hillock. Sparrow drew a delicate, jade-handled dagger from her boot, and slid the grooved blade into an imperceptible slot in the swirling pattern on the stonework. In answer, the panel slid backwards and rose like a portcullis, revealing an arched entrance into a murky passage. Sparrow lifted a torch from a sconce on the wall, and handed it to Walter. 'Good luck, Beck, We're relying on you. I have faith in you.' She patted his shoulder in farewell.

'Thank you, Major,' Walter replied, accepting the torch, and disappearing into the musty passage. He was swallowed into the bowels of the earth as the stone door slid back into place behind him.

Sparrow took a moment to lean against the wall, contemplating the night ahead of them all. She sighed, aware of the fact that, as resilient as the soldiers were, they would be too exhausted by morning to reasonably be expected to prevail over the belvarines. She herself, although as resilient as any hero of legend, did not savour the prospect of ten hours or more of intense, energy draining magic. Furthermore, the apparent, attempted kidnapping of the morning disturbed her, as she could not understand why a balverine would engage in such behaviour. She decided that, if necessary, she would create a diversion until reinforcements arrived.

When Sparrow returned to the centre of the fort, everyone was ready to meet the imminent insurge of hollow men. Sparrow immediately fortified all entrances with spells, feeling the minor yet steady drain of energy begin as the first barrier materialised. Engells was standing on the front battlements, efficiently carrying out his orders, as the first hollow men began bursting out of the soil. Swift was attempting to rest as instructed, yet, as he lay on his matress with closed eyes, his back to the fray, he wondered how many of them would survive the siege. Lucy Parker simply drew her pistol, and smiled grimly as the mortar shattered a knot of the undead abominations into dust.

Thus, the next stage of battle commenced. The sounds of the night before echoed once again across tree and marsh. The Eco Warrior commune was more dismayed than on any previous occasion, as they could not understand why battle had continued to rage throughout the day, when the spirits of the forest were at rest.

As the inferno of combat blazed at the fort, the balverines rested peacefully in a dense copse of trees. Their leader smiled as he listened to the hue and cry nearby, thinking about Sparrow's skill and courage in battle. 'She will make a noble balverine,' he thought to himself, 'and a fine Queen, when I become King of Albion. She will bear me strong, proud descendants.'

…...

Walter bounded across Mistpeak Valley, running as fast as humanly possible and simultaneously scanning for bandit ambushes and listening for the howling of nearby wolf packs. He was relieved to have emerged from Mourningwood intact, having encountered nothing more dangerous than the requisite hollow men. Although the underground passage had ended well away from Mourningwood Fort, he had been fearful that the balverines would nonetheless apprehend him, foiling his mission. Now, he felt more secure in his goal, as he continued upwards into colder regions.

As Walter progressed towards Brightwall, his mind wandered to Lucy Parker. Lucy was a plain young woman, by any account, but she was intelligent, feisty, and an honourable soldier, who Walter was always glad to have at his back in battle. Over the course of the last year, he had gotten to know her well, and a mutual affection had seeped into their relationship. Whilst neither of them would allow their feelings to overshadow their duties or their calling, they nonetheless shared many special moments together. Eventually, affection became passion, and passion became love. Walter remembered the night before the company convened to go to Mourningwood: the recruits had been given twenty four hours leave, and he and Lucy had spent the night at Ye Quill & Quandry Inn in Brightwall. When they had finished, and were drifting off to sleep in each other's arms, Walter had realised that he would like to share the rest of his life with Lucy. Contrary to rumour, guards and soldiers were freely permitted to marry, yet many chose not to because of the implications involved.

Lucy had been casually concerned when Walter informed her that he was leaving to perform an undercover mission. Walter had been the same: Although the death of comrades was a fact of life in the militia, and the impact of death never deteriorated, there was little benefit in wasting valuable energy on constant fear and worry. Therefore, they exchanged a loving farewell, and a gentle kiss. Walter did not believe that death would befall either of them that night. The soldiers at Mourningood Fort were undeniably faced with terrifying odds, but the battle was hardly the most prolific in history, in addition to which they were being commanded by the fabled Hero of Bowerstone. The key concern was why these belvarines were so resilient.

Walter was relieved to see the lights of Brightwall on the inky horizon as he mounted a slope. However, he halted in dismay when a large portion of the nearby mountainside rumbled, grew, shook itself off, and growled resoundingly at him. 'It had to be a blasted rock-troll,' he grumbled, drawing his pistol and attempting to identify the troll's tender pressure points. Naturally, he had no time to pull the trigger before the creature flipped a boulder towards him. Walter rolled, dodging the shattering rock, and immediately found the pressure point once again, firing a shot into it. The troll bellowed, and pounded the ground in pain, which caused a quake that knocked Walter to his feet. 'Wonderful,' Walter grunted, as the quaking ceased and he righted himself, 'one down. Only another nine or so left.'

Trolls were, technically, not as dangerous as balverines. They were undeniably less intelligent, moved with the speed and grace of a drunk turkey, and could generally be avoided with care, which eliminated the necessity for frequent combat. However, when combat _was_ necessary, they held a trump card: brute strength. A balverine could kill quickly, but nonetheless required varying degrees of skill, dependant on its intended victim. A troll, by comparison, could kill a large human man by accident while in the process of swatting a fly. When a troll concentrated its attempts on killing a large human man with boulders, and a large human man was putting bullets into highly delicate portions of its anatomy, it is likely to kill this large human man without much trouble. Walter was a fantastic soldier, but trolls were best fought in groups of four or more professionals, unless that group included the Hero of Bowerstone. Sparrow had, as most people knew, once defeated a rock troll _and_ a company of hobbes single handed at the Crucible, simultaneously breaking the record set by the legendary Crucible champion, Mad Dog.

In spite of the troll's advantages, Walter was holding his own, until his foot caught a root, and he crashed to the ground. He gasped, and attempted to roll as the troll raised its arms to crush him. To Walter's horror, his foot was trapped in the convulated root. Needless to say, that would have been the end of Walter Beck, had he not been assisted by a large human woman – a _very_ large human woman.

The troll began to bring its fists down on Walter, then jerked backwards, bellowing in distress, as a sickly crunching sound filled the crisp, cold air. 'There, you bastard,' said a deep female voice, 'now you know to pick on people your own size.' Walter took the opportunity to release his foot from the root. The troll continued to bellow in agony, as wet, crunching noises continued to eminate from its body. When Walter stood, he saw a gigantic, silver warhammer bear down on the troll's head, smashing its skull and brain, and slaying it instantly.

'I'll be dashed,' Walter exclaimed, staring at the bloody mess that had recently been a troll. 'I've never seen a troll taken out that fast. You're a strong lass, to be sure!' He examined the woman: bulky with muscle (and fat), she was not unnatractive, yet her overwhelming masculinity would have been offputting to most men. She was taller than he was, and her long, thick, auburn hair hung down her back in braids which had initially been neat, but now frizzed around her head like a swarm of bees around their hive. She wore a habit, such as a monk may wear: white, with a grey hood. Her silver warhammer was as tall as she herself was, and carved with arcane runes. It looked too heavy for most strong men to lift, much less wield.

'You OK there?' asked the woman. 'The trolls have always been a bloody nuisance 'round here. The frost trolls up north are just as bad; great hulking lumps, they terrorise everyone. They're not nearly as dense as the ones here, either. It gives me good practice, though!'

'I'm fine, thanks to you!' Walter replied gratefully, 'Thanks!'

'Don't mention it!' She grinned, looking Walter up and down. 'You a soldier?' she asked. 'I've just been to Brightwall, on my way to Mourningwood Fort. I noticed that the army's going good. Would the Hero of Bowerstone still be busy at the fort?'

'Not the best time, I'm afraid,' Walter grimaced. 'I'm one of the recruits, and we were going to leave today, but I'm afraid that we seem to be under a genuine attack … not just hollow men. It's some kind of hostility from the east. They're transforming balverines, and they're not dying. I'm on my way to get reinforcements and silver weapons in Brightwall.'

The woman sighed, shaking her head and smiling. 'Bloody Hell! Sparrow hasn't stopped getting into trouble then? Hmph, well, I may as well help you. Sounds like you need another hero.'

'Ahhh,' Walter put the pieces together. 'Then you must be Hammer the Strong.'

'Yep,' Hammer grinned, 'although I'm also a monk now. I thought I'd saunter down south to see how my old buddy was doing. Good thing I did. What's your name, then?'

'Walter Beck,' a stunned Walter replied, 'and may I say, I'm honoured to meet you!.

Hammer chuckled. 'Good to meet ya, Walter,' she answered good-humouredly, clasping his hand in her vicelike grip and shaking, 'but you don't have to feel honoured. All I ever did here was kill a few monsters and spend ten years waiting around in Rookridge.' She slapped Walter on the back, which almost sent him sprawling into the mud, and chuckled: 'I'm flattered, though. Whaddya say we get moving, before they all get eaten there in the woods? By the way, if you ever get to Brightwall in the near future, just to relax, I mean, you _must _try the new batch of beer at the inn …'

…...

Sparrow did eventually become fatigued from performing complex will formulations, and was forced to rest in order to avoid collapsing. While she dozed, the soldiers attacked the hollow-men with steel. This was the second time that night that Sparrow had been forced to collapse, dazed and nauseated, on her sleeping roll, and lose conciousness. However, as the sun initiated a new day, the company was heartened by the absence of fatalities. After the relieved recruits raised a cheer, they ingested sustanence and tended wounds in the interval before the irrevocable entrance of the balverines. Major Engells knelt beside Sparrow, curled up on her sleeping roll, and offered her a tankard of wine and some bread and cheese. He noted, with concern, how pale and weak she appeared: even the greatest heroes rarely needed to maintain spells for hours at a time. Sparrow wolfed the victuals down, and thanked Engells, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. 'Are you alright, my friend?' Engells asked, clearly concerned for her health. 'You're as pale as a banshee.'

'I'll be fine,' Sparrow replied stoicly, standing up, 'I just needed some breakfast.

The soldiers were, in due course, sent back to their posts. The moment they were prepared, a cacophony of howls and snarls met their ears, and the balverines sprang from the surrounding woodland, well-rested and ready for another fierce grapple.

The battle commenced in the same pattern as the previous day. Engells fought masterfully, yet found that the severe opposition was beginning to wear him down. Eventually, his exhaustion made him slow; he blocked too late, and he was flung onto the ground by a charging balverine. John Swift, ever vigilant, rescued him form an untimely demise with a well-aimed bullet to the beast's jugular. Predictably, the beast did not die, but it was distracted enough for Engells to roll out of its path. He nodded in appreciation as he bolted past Swift.

Sparrow wielded her sword with great effect, giving many of her brutish opponents reason to regret attacking the fort; although impossible to bestow death upon them, pain was her friend that hour. Through the choking dust stirred by multitudinous feet, Sparrow noticed Lucy Parker disappear under a swarm of balverines. She began to strafe in Lucy's general direction, planning to extricate the woman from the seething throng of teeth and claws. Suddenly, Sparrow was smashed in the back of the head: The pain was excruciating, and her vision swam out of focus, before everything went black.

**Thanks for reading! Chapter 6 coming soon. Remember, if there's anything you'd like to see in the story, or say about anything, there's a forum :)**


	6. Indecent Strategy

**Hi guys. Sorry if I kept anyone waiting, but this chapter's quite long. Thanks to all the readers out there, and also to the complimentary reviewer!**

**CHAPTER WARNINGS: MODERATE VIOLENCE, INFREQUENT LANGUAGE, FAIRLY HIGH SUGGESTIVE THEMES (BUT NO ACTUAL LEMON), USE OF MEDICAL DRUGS.**

CHAPTER 6

INDECENT STRATEGY

When Sparrow regained consciousness, she realised that she was lying on something soft, but was too disoriented to notice much else. Her head throbbed unendurably, and every miniscule movement and throb of the blood in her veins, felt like a million maces were being struck against the inside of her skull. Although her eyes were shut and she was lying flat on her back, she could feel the world spinning around her. 'A concussion, I suppose,' she thought vaguely, remembering the blow to her head. Sparrow's eyes fluttered open, unfocused, and revealed to her sight undefined, swimming blots of colour. In addition, a sharp wave of nausea overwhelmed her. She whimpered in agony, and rolled her eyes shut once again.

'Here, drink this,' an unfamiliar, male voice murmured, as a cup was set to her lips. The liquid was bitter in taste and milky in texture, and she had difficulty quelling her nausea sufficiently enough to swallow it. However, the solution effected an almost immediate improvement: the nausea subsided, and her headache receded to severe, rather than unbearable. The vertigo did not diminish, but it was no longer distressing. The relief was accompanied by a pleasant, soothing drowsiness, and a strong desire to sleep. 'What happened?' She thought groggily, as she became able to focus on something besides pain, 'I have to work this out.' But her exhaustion and remaining discomfort, coupled with the effects of the medicinal remedy, dulled her mind, permitting only stupor, and presently, sleep …

Consciousness returned languidly, as Sparrow drifted from a deep slumber into a partially alert state. She felt warm, comfortable, and drowsy. She lay motionless, not opening her eyes, and feeling reluctant to greet the day: The day ahead, with all the training exercises, the soldiers, the work to be done …. She continued to doze, breathing evenly, and slipping in and out of consciousness pleasantly, until she noticed something stirring near her. A male voice soothingly crooned, 'Here, my dear, drink up,' and a cup was placed tenderly to her lips. She sipped, eager to get back to sleep, and sighed contentedly when she had finished. 'Wait,' she thought suddenly, as her foggy mind cleared, 'That's not right. What happened?' After a moment of reflection, Sparrow remembered the battle, and the situation with the balverines. In addition, she vaguely remembered something about being knocked unconscious, and about being ill: the pain, the man administering medicine to her and stroking her forehead, and her inability to concentrate or understand much of what was happening. There had also been a woman, she recalled, who had fed her and bathed her. She decided, in the absence of any other memory of recent events, to be cautious. She cracked her eyes open to slits, ascertaining that there were two human forms in the enclosure, whereupon she cautiously opened her eyes to investigate her surroundings.

Sparrow lay on a mattress in a sumptuous, red and gold tent. The mattress was downy, and sheathed in white silk. The sheets were silk also, of the finest, most pure variety; as white as a lily and as soft as virgin snow. The blankets were furs, presumably from large, white fauna of some variety, and were luxurious and warm. The deluge of white was broken by the soft, red, satin pillows, like bloodstains in the snow. Sparrow realised suddenly that a cool cloth was pressed against her forehead. She also realised, with trepidation, that she wore a filmy white nightgown, and that her weapons were nowhere in sight. An aged woman, creased and wrinkled as a brown apple, was kneeling near the bed, preparing a philtre of herbal tincture. At the foot of the mattress, also kneeling, and gazing keenly at Sparrow, was the traveller who had transformed into a white balverine.

Sparrow bolted into a sitting position, demanding fiercely, 'Where are my soldiers?' The stranger smiled, his grin toothy and sinister. 'They are all safe, and under guard at Mourningwood Fort. When I took you hostage, they were most compliant. They are, it seems, rather fond of you.'

'What do you want, balverine?' Sparrow demanded grimly.

'I want to negotiate,' the rogue answered, drawing her in with his dark gaze.

Sparrow protested, 'If you want me to negotiate, I have to be able to think clearly. If that medicine you just gave me is the same as before, I won't be in any state to do anything.'

'Don't worry,' the stranger laughed, 'It was not particularly strong. You were in far more pain before. Indeed, there is another draught here you should take to avoid further pain.'

'Very well,' Sparrow acquiesced reluctantly. Although they had doctored her efficiently, she was, understandably, reluctant to accept potions from an enemy. In addition, their cautious ministrations were somewhat redundant, since they themselves were the instruments of her brutalisation. 'Although I doubt the older one had much to do with this,' Sparrow reflected mentally, referring t the aged woman, 'I must thank her if I get a chance.'

Sparrow's hostage motioned towards the older woman. 'Luise has been tending to you,' he said, 'she bathed you, fed you, prepared your medicine … everything, really, that I couldn't do myself. I thought you may wish to preserve your dignity, and it is more appropriate for a practitioner of the medical trade to do these things.'

Sparrow graciously expressed her gratitude: 'My thanks, Luise, for your care. You are an accomplished apothecary and nurse.'

'You're welcome, M'lady,' replied Luise, standing and curtsying.

The stranger commanded imperiously, 'Luise, leave us until I call you. Ensure that we are not disturbed under any circumstances.' The crone complied, passing the phial of potion to him, and leaving the tent.

After draining the bitter solution offered to her, Sparrow inquired heatedly, 'How long have I been unconscious?'

'Three days,' was his unconcerned reply. Sparrow was entirely displeased, but said nothing as the man turned to her, kneeling near her and taking her hand. 'Now I can introduce myself,' he said, raising her hand and gently brushing his lips against it. 'I am Desmond, Lord of the House of Balvornen, and ruler of Strathford.'

'Balvornen?' Sparrow exclaimed, remembering the myths surrounding the origin of balverines. The balvornen family was ostensibly descended from the mighty belvorn, and was, Sparrow had previously concluded, a fabrication of power hungry nobility.

Indeed,' he replied, smiling again, 'We are not mere bedtime stories after all, my dear. I am surprised that you so obviously believed so. However, that is hardly important at the present time. I wish to apologize for our brutal attack on you and your soldiers. I would have avoided it if possible, most especially my inhumane actions towards your person. I'm afraid, however, that invasion is never a gentle thing. I did ensure that you had the best care possible, to remedy this minor inconvenience.'

Sparrow desired nothing more than to break his nose, and considered drawing his attention to the fact that giving her a concussion that incapacitated her for seventy-two hours was not a 'minor inconvenience'. However, she had more important things to say. 'You were not Lord of Strathford when I was visitng. I believe that, at the time, a Terrance Spear was in charge.'

'Yes,' Balvornen chuckled deeply, 'he met with an untimely demise. Most of my townspeople are superstitious, but he never was. In the light of this, I'm sure you must agree that there is much poetic irony in the fact that he was crushed by a brick that a workman dropped when the good man walked under a ladder.'

'And what of this invasion?' Sparrow proceeded, 'Your own personal invasion, or a general balverine invasion? Or are there more parties involved that I am not yet aware of?' As Sparrow made this inquiry, she noticed that she was becoming mildly drowsy and excessively relaxed. In addition, she could feel a faint tingle spreading throughout her body. Not an unpleasant sensation in any sense, but not one that Sparrow recognised, or was comfortable with. However, she decided that it was related to her recent concussion, and disregarded it when Balvornen replied: 'I aim to conquer the entirety of the western continent. When I've done this, and have become Albion's first King since the Archon, it should be a relatively simple undertaking to _persuade_ the east to conjoin with us. After all, I'll have the army you so thoughtfully prepared for my arrival, and the east will be well taken care of under my regime. Just think, Albion could be a united nation once more, something beyond the wildest fantasies of any of these unambitious yokel leaders. The east will benefit from the west's superb technology, and the west will regain its sense of identity and history from the east. You will help to achieve this, naturally.'

'What makes you think that I'll help you saunter in and take over?' Sparrow retorted, regally lifting her chin, 'You have no right of any sort to that privilege. The west has, I admit, lost some of its magical charm, but it's nothing that some gentle guidance can't remedy. And I take great offence at the terminology you use to describe our leaders. Many of them are weak, corrupt, and dull-witted, but this has not always been so. Not to mention that my soldiers will hardly find your proposition appealing, either.' Sparrow was finding it unusually difficult to concentrate. The tingling was becoming more insistent, and her mind kept wandering to topics that should have been inconsequential: they all concerned Balvornen, and how breathtakingly handsome he was.

Sparrow blinked, and attempted to focus as Balvornen continued, 'Your soldiers will follow where you lead, and you will follow me. My dear, my goals are far more honourable than you give me credit for. Just think how life could be, if Albion where whole and stable again! It would be like it was in the age of heroes, only far, far better! I never considered it a _selfish_ goal. I had hoped you would agree with me.'

While Balvornen spoke, Sparrow realised that she was becoming increasingly overheated, and that she was struggling to concentrate on what he said. She kept getting lost in the sound of that beautiful voice … but she was aware enough to be able to disagree, to interject, 'The goal is not dishonourable, but I have always believed that the end does not always justify the means. Also, there is a large proportion of self-interest in your strategy, and several things that make no sense to me. Why this sudden attack on Mourningwood Fort, for a start? We had nothing to do with anything, and if you want to conquer Albion, which, incidentally, is not going to succeed with the numbers you've transported, why start there?' Sparrow blanched as Balvornen gazed at her, suddenly realising that she was blushing, sweating, and trembling, and that her breathing was far too rapid. She asked shakily, 'Could I have some water?'

Balvornen gave her a glass of water, which she gulped thirstily. When she was satiated, he continued, 'Well, you see, one of my aims is to strengthen the hero blood that remains in Albion, for which I need a hero. Specifically, I wish for you to be my main project.'

'But even if the other three heroes were present,' Sparrow protested weakly, feeling dazed and dizzy 'you could hardly re-populate Albion with heroes.'

Balvornen smiled again, and replied, 'I hardly wish to rebuild the Hero's Guild. Even I must admit the impossibility of that. No, I was thinking on a more practical level. You see, ever since I saw you in Strathford, in spite of the fact that it was impossible for us to meet at the time, I knew that you and I were destined to be bound to one another. You will be my Queen, and the first balverine of the greatest hero bloodline in existence. Together, we will bind Albion in peace once again. I love you, Sparrow. I love you with such great passion that I have been barely able to bear the years in which I have not been beside you … but that is all past now.'

Sparrow groaned, and mentally chastised herself for not realising sooner why she was feeling so strange. 'Balvornen,' She gasped furiously, 'You don't think that a love potion will make me unfaithful to my husband and children, surely? Think about what you know of me, and you will see the impossibility of this.'

He chuckled. '"Love" potion is such a wishful name,' he replied. 'You can't bottle _love_. But lust, infatuation, compliance … these are different matters entirely, and I'm sure that they will be sufficient to persuade you, along with a few other little surprises I have in store, that you and I were meant to be. Love will come, in time.'

The monster lunged suddenly, pushing Sparrow onto her back and pinning her to the mattress. He pressed his lips to hers, taking advantage of her gasp of shock. The potion he had slipped her in the guise of medicine was potent indeed, to be capable of evaporating Sparrow's strength of mind and will so completely. She forgot everything but the kiss, and sighed happily as she lost herself in the sensations. They continued for some time, and when he finally pulled away, they were both gasping for air. He kissed her neck passionately, and she lolled her head back, eyes shut, mindlessly enjoying his caresses, which were intensified by the tingling of the potion coursing through her veins.

However, something was nagging Sparrow's subconscious mind, and distracting her incoherent brain: 'This feels so good, but there's something wrong,' she thought blearily. She lost track of her thoughts again when he kissed her collarbone, then resumed her rumination: 'What's wrong with this picture? Is it because it's different to how Bob … Bob? Is that it? _Something to do with Bob _… It's because I'm married to Bob, and this is an enemy!' Sparrow pictured her husband and children, and as her thoughts became coherent once again, she found the will to fight the concoction she had imbibed.

'NO!' Sparrow screamed, sharply bringing a knee to Balvornen's abdomen. He barked in pain, cursing harshly, as Sparrow leapt from the mattress, and prepared to make her escape. However, the beast within the man surfaced, and her escape was foiled before it could begin: Balvornen hissed, bolting upright, and dragging her back to the mattress. Sparrow thrashed, kicked, clawed, and bit, but could not break away from the brute's strength. He threw her onto the mattress, and produced two ropes, which he used to bind her wrists and ankles. This accomplished, he threw the blankets back over her, and stood. 'I had wished to do this in a way you would enjoy, but it seems that you are not romantically inclined. I will give you twenty four hours. If you do not choose to accept me willingly, I shall force a double dose of the potion into you, and keep you tied up while we're busy. You'll enjoy it, but it won't be your choice. It's up to you how you want to go about it.'

'I had no choice to begin with,' Sparrow spat, struggling furiously against the bonds.

'Well no,' he replied, smirking snidely, 'but then, you _are_ an extraordinary woman. Anyone who can overcome this particular brew _should_ have a choice.' He stepped out of the tent, leaving Sparrow simmering in a rage so strong that she had to force herself to calm down in order to think clearly. 'Ok, Sparrow,' she muttered, clenching her teeth, 'think of something that you can take your anger out on, something that'll cheer you up. Think of … _Reaver_. Think of how you would slowly rip out his fingernails …'

…

Major Engells and John Swift relentlessly paced the battlements, under the unwavering gaze of their balverine captors. Their defeat was no surprise, but their loss of Sparrow was a dreadful blow, and both men were concerned for her wellbeing. Rescue operations were impractical under the circumstances. They could only hope that, when Walter Beck arrived with aid, Sparrow would either free herself in the resulting confusion, or they could rescue her in the process of driving away the balverines. Whether she would be healthy enough to fight was another matter, however. Both men had been enraged when they saw the enormous, white balverine belt Sparrow across the head with the butt of a rifle, which it had torn from the grip of a soldier, and hold the shaft to her temple, roaring, 'Cease your resistance, soldiers of Mourningwood Fort, or I will kill your beloved Hero!' With no possible way to intervene without triggering Sparrow's demise, the Mourningwood Fort Company had universally dropped their weapons, and permitted themselves to be searched, and confined to the fort. Engells and Swift had watched, futilely, as a possibly concussed Sparrow was relocated outside the fort, presumably in the camp that the balverines had erected outside the walls.

Three tedious, tense days had grinded past. Their jailers treated them with dignity and thoughtfulness, and refrained from looting the fort, or invading their privacy more than necessary. They were permitted to eat, sleep, and even spar. Ranged weapons were confiscated without exception, however. The first order of duty was, to the unified sorrow of all, to bury the twenty originally deceased members of the company, and the five who had fallen in the most recent brutalities: among these brave souls, Lucy Parker was now resting in her grave at the fort. The valiant soldier had been unable to extricate herself from the knot of balverines that Sparrow had been preparing to liberate her from before the white balverine struck her. It was not particularly consoling to the company when the creatures apologised, and excused their actions on the grounds that they had not been intending to kill her. Indeed, they took the trouble to explain that, in the knowledge that their leader had captured Sparrow, they did not intend to take any more lives, but had been scrambling so wildly that they had not noticed Lucy's presence in their midst until she was crushed. Both Engells and Swift, in unvoiced recognition of Walter's relationship with her, pitied the man deeply. The nights of captivity had predictably been less dull, as the necessity to combat the hollow men had remained. However, the balverines' willingness to assist in combat decreased the severity of this tribulation.

Not long after the sun rose on the fourth day of captivity, Engells and Swift noticed a lone figure tramping the path to the fort during their mutual, restless pacings. Whoever it was wore the red and blue uniform of the Albion National Military. 'Zounds,' Engells muttered, peering surreptitiously at the approaching entity, 'I hope that's not Walter, back without any help.'

Unfortunately, it appeared that Engells concern was justified: Walter trudged through the camp, to the collective astonishment of the balverines therein, and stood at the base of Mourningwood Fort, entirely alone. He drew his sword, and took a defensive stance, apparently waiting for the invaders to charge him. The Balverines, both in the fort and in the camp, peered disbelievingly at him. After several seconds of profound silence, they burst into a shout of raucous laughter. Many commented on Walter: 'Look, mates, here's another hero – oh no, wait, it's just a suicidal lunatic!'

'What you going to do, little moron? Come back when you're old enough to grow a beard!'

'Got a high opinion of yerself, ain't ye? But you ran, all th' same, ran away from all yer friends when it counted!'

Their self-security faltered when a large form joined Walter, leaping from the bushes at his side, and wielding a gigantic war-hammer: it was Hammer. 'You know,' she shouted fiercely in reply, 'I've learned that it's only fair to make fun of people if they're stronger than you.' When the balverines ceased their mockery, in the realisation of who she was (as Hammer was more famed than she allowed herself to realise), she laughed, 'Chicken, are you! You should be, 'cause we're about to take you down!'

'Fascinating. Prey, do share the details.'

Hammer and Walter snapped around, and met the eyes of the stranger who had transformed into a white balverine. 'Watch it, that's the bastard who kidnapped Sparrow!' Engells exclaimed hastily, instantly receiving a blow to his head from a guard.

'Where's my friend, you slimy excuse for a sentient organism?' Hammer growled, whispering as an aside to Walter, 'I learned what _sentient organism_ means at the monastery, though I don't think they meant me to use it as an insult.'

Balvornen smiled. 'Your beloved hero is under my extensive and secure care, and has decided to throw her lot in with me. Not necessarily voluntarily, it's true, but it _will_ be her choice eventually, once she sees what I have to offer her.'

'You cad!' Walter bellowed, 'If you've done anything untoward …'

'Oh, spare me, boy,' Balvornen snapped, 'I'll do nothing that isn't good for her … or me, for that matter. Now, how do you propose to storm the fort? I know that the lump of lard in the habit is talented … now, now, you said only to insult people stronger than oneself,' as Hammer brandished her weapon, 'but two of you is, nonetheless, an insufficient force.'

'Really?' Hammer questioned, raising an eyebrow. 'Well, then, let your lads come down and pretend there's more of us, see how long you last, eh?'

Balvornen chuckled heartily, as did most of his soldiers. 'By all means, let's have some fun! MEN!'

Throughout the fort, the easterners doubled over, transforming into their nocturnal alter egos, and Balvornen took several strides backwards, eager to enjoy the show. Hammer simply stood facing the fort and smiling knowingly, and Walter readied his pistol. 'You know,' she whispered as the gate dropped, 'it's amazing how careless you can get when you've won a few rounds. He didn't even notice my hammer's silver.'

'Bloody good thing he didn't,' Walter replied, as the first balverines surged out of the fort.

Hammer and Walter held their own for exactly one minute. Fortunately, this was all the time they actually required. Hammer felled ten balverines with her silver hammer, Walter five with his silver ammunition. Balvornen snarled, realising too late that his westerners must have remembered the legends about silver weaponry, and roared, 'KILL THEM!' But he was too late; surrounding the fortress and the camp, the hordes of the Brightwall resistance materialised, bellowing war cries and surging towards the fort, trapping the balverines between themselves and the stone walls.

The battle was over with little ado. Although the balverines were prepared for a sizeable onslaught of enemies, Balvornen had fatefully assumed that the potency of silver against various breeds of monster was unknown in Western Albion. Presently, the fort and its surroundings were bathed in the blood of dead and dying balverines. Hammer, Walter, Swift, and a somewhat dazed Engells were as valiant as always, and after an hour of raging combat, the fort was retaken. However, they still had a problem, which Engells addressed after regrouping their troops in case of a fresh attack.

Engells gathered Hammer, Walter, and Swift around him, and began: 'Now, we have to talk fast. Firstly, Beck, congratulations on an outstanding job! I shall see to it that you begin your service proper at a good ranking. Swift, well done indeed! You too have proven yourself mature and capable beyond your years, and I will recommend you! However, we have a problematic situation: The white balverine, _Lord_ Balvornen, as he calls himself, is not among the dead, and Sparrow is not anywhere in the camp. I suggest that we find them, quickly, before he takes her beyond aid and does something unspeakable to her.'

'Leave it to me!' Hammer proclaimed, 'I learned loads about hunting and tracking at the monastery. I can even track beetles!'

'First,' Engells interrupted, 'may I just say how honoured I am to meet you, madam!'

Hammer chuckled, rolling her eyes: 'Everyone acts as if I saved the world or something! Not that I mind,' winking, 'but it was Sparrow who did that.' She shook hands with Engells, and continued, 'Anyway, I'll just sort this out on my own. When I catch the hairball, I'll sort him out good and proper!'

Hammer departed and began scanning the ground, frequently stooping until her nose was pressed to the earth and grass, looking for the tiniest signs of disturbance. Swift departed to assist the troops, and Engells was forced to inform Walter of the thing he was dreading to say. 'Beck,' he said gravely, placing his hand on Walter's shoulder, 'there's something you need to know.' Walter's eyes momentarily registered fear at Engell's tone, which almost instantly faded into sad resignation. 'Lucy?'

'She's gone, Beck. I'm deeply sorry. She was brave to the end.' Walter nodded numbly, eyes blank and glassy, and requested tonelessly to see her grave.

When Engells left Walter to grieve, Walter somehow could not register that Lucy was dead. He could not comprehend that he would never see Lucy again, hear her laugh, converse with her, or observe all those little things that made her who she was, and made him love her. They had seen each other a mere three days beforehand, and he was going to propose to her once they left this accursed place. How could she be dead? _How could she be dead?_ These thoughts recurred continually in Walters mind as he stood by the grave, dry eyed, reading and re-reading the epitaph inscribed on the headstone: 'Lucy Parker: Courageous recruit of the Albion National Military. Fell to balverine invasion at Mourningwood Fort. Albion salutes her sacrifice.' At some point, the thought, 'They forgot to mention she liked horses,' joined the circular, incoherent procession of Walter's thoughts, a personal response to her impersonal memorial. He stood there for two hours, numb, unable to comprehend or grieve. When he left the grave, he was as dry-eyed as when he arrived, and unceremoniously went to get some victuals.

Engells had been watching Walter anxiously, as had Swift. They were disturbed by his inability to mourn, because they realised that instability that oftentimes resulted from such repressed grief. Swift did not need to vocalise his concern to Engells: Engells simply commented, 'Sometimes, it's a hard thing to come to grips with mortality. Give him time. He won't let it interfere with his duty, come what may. I just hope that, one day, he finds another lass who he can adore that much … not that fate's generally so kind.' Thus, the Mourningwood Fort company waited, while Hammer, who had located Balvornen's trail with uncanny speed, tracked the villain through the hazardous terrain of Mourningwood.

…...

Sparrow had been scrambling to formulate an escape plan, but found inspiration entirely absent. Her hands and feet were firmly bound, and in the event that she freed herself, the balverine guards would immediately apprehend her. In addition, her missing weapons were a concern, as her bare hands were ineffectual in defence against the monsters outside. Nonetheless, she presently decided that the first order of business should be freeing her limbs, after which she would assess the possibility of escaping through speed and the element of surprise.

When Sparrow attempted to slide one hand out of the rope, holding her bonds in place with the other, she immediately knew that the ropes were too tight. She attempted a tentative bite, but the rope was thick and hardy. She scanned the tent for rough or sharp surfaces with which to abrade the bindings, with no success. 'There's nothing else for it, then,' Sparrow sighed, before resorting to her emergency reserve plan: she muttered a string of words, collecting will from her being, and her bindings loosened and slithered to the ground.

Unfortunately, no sooner had the ropes pooled beside her on the tent floor, than two burley balverines stumbled into the tent, Luise on their heels. Sparrow shot to the edge of the tent, intending to duck underneath and run for the forest, but was not able to evade the lightning-fast guards: They lifted her by the arms, and pinned her, arms wide, to the mattress. Sparrow struggled barbarically, drawing their blood to the bone with her teeth and nails, yet was unable to loosen their grip, regardless of how violently she writhed and squirmed.

'I'm sorry, deary,' Luise said sympathetically, bearing a cup in her hands, 'but th' master said ye were to be put to sleep if ye used that Will stuff. He set up some magic o' his own, y' see, to know if you were up to mischief in that way. He's been kind t' you, and he's given you th' chance to choose yerself, but we can't have ye hurting people around camp, now, can we? I am sorry though, deary, I wouldn't force you if I didna have me orders.'

'No!' Sparrow screeched, attempting futilely to free herself. When Luise brought the cup to her lips, she shut her mouth tightly. Although Sparrow realised the redundancy of her obstinacy, she did not want to submit meekly. As expected, Luise clamped Sparrow's nose shut. Sparrow took as large a breath as possible, but was eventually forced to open her mouth for air, at which point the drug was poured into her throat. She was unable to expel more than a portion of it, and choked as the bulk of the liquid slithered down. She continued to kick and struggle until the drug took effect, and she was too overcome with drowsiness and stupidity to continue. When she became still and limp, eyes fixed unfocusedly on the ceiling, her captors released her arms, and Luise said gently, 'Ye dunna have t' tie her up again. She'll be good now, 'till the master's ready.'

The two balverines left to stand guard outside the tent, and Luise tucked a stupefied Sparrow into bed, and gently stroked her forehead. 'I am sorry, luvvy,' she whispered sincerely, 'but we all have our trials in this world, and it does no good t' offend the master. There's more to him than you'd realise, more that makes him a dangerous one. But it won't be so bad, ye'll see. Ye'll be his fine lady, and get jewels and gowns and parties, better'n any you've hade before. And he loves you to death, y' know. If you put your mind t' it, you'll forget about your family, and be jus' as happy with him. I know how ye feel, I didn't want te be a balverine, either, but it's not so bad once ye get used to it. We're not all evil, at least, not us as don't go feral. I'll help ye to get through this.' Sparrow somehow registered what she said, before she was pulled down into a blanket of slumber, a fresh tear of appreciation sliding down her cheek.

…

Sparrow was jolted to minimal awareness when she was suddenly lifted up. Her eyes were too heavy to pry open, but she heard voices: There was Balvornen, saying urgently 'Quick, men, gather together all the indispensable items, and Luise, make sure you bring all the potions. The Hero can ride on my back, so she'll be quite safe. Hilarion, you stay here a moment.' A short pause, then a new voice; another man: 'What went wrong, My Lord? Everything was going according to plan …'

Balvornen again, snarling 'They remembered the myths! At least, one of them must have. I have no doubt that the silver weapons are compliments of my frustrating lover here, but no harm done for now. This is not a minor issue, but it can be overcome … providing we get away quickly. Fortunately, the other aspect of our plan worked perfectly. I knew that she'd act in such a manner, I simply did not realise that she was so frustratingly aware of the history of our kind. Even in the east, such myths are becoming obscure. It seems that Heroes have long memories.'

Sparrow did not comprehend what they said next. She heard them speaking in low, urgent voices, apparently forming plans. She knew that Brightwall was mentioned, and Bowerstone also, but beyond that, her befuddled mind was unable to grasp anything before she slipped back to sleep.

…..

The nightly hollow-man attack had ceased, and dawn was blooming across the landscape, when Hammer reappeared, jogging towards the fort. When two tardy hollow men accosted her, she sent one flying with a kick, and smashed the other into dust with her mighty war-hammer. When she reached the fort and had been permitted entrance, she was immediately joined by Engells, Swift, and Walter.

'Bad news, blokes,' Hammer stated grimly, 'I tracked them from the place they were camping. It seems that this Balvornen didn't want to stick around and get stuck with a silver sword. They managed to make away with Sparrow. To Brightwall.'

'Brightwall?' Engells exclaimed, puzzled. 'Why Brightwall? There couldn't have been more than ten of them left after we shot them full of silver, and the Brightwall militia will be on red alert.'

'Yeeeaaah,' Hammer was reluctant to impart the bad news, 'but they're on alert for _us_, not the balverines. It seems that Balvornen brought more people than we thought with him, and they're not all balverines. Apparently, while everyone was busy here, they've, ah, taken over Brightwall.'

**Thankyou, and I hope you enjoyed it! Feedback always appreciated :)**


	7. Rallying the Troops

**Hi everyone, I finally got around to continuing the story. I hope you enjoy the next instalment! The usual disclaimers apply: Fable is the property of Lionshead Studios and Microsoft etc...**

**CHAPTER WARNINGS: MILD LANGUAGE, MILD SUGGESTIVE THEMES, MILD VIOLENCE.**

CHAPTER 6

RALLYING THE TROOPS

**Brigthwall**

'Reaver is here to see you, My Lord.'

'Thank you, Hilarion.' Balvornen was reclining on a red plush couch in the parlour of Brightwall Manor, previously home to the late mayor of Brightwall. The interloper rose to his feet as Hilarion ushered Reaver into the room. Smirking, smug, and outrageous, the tall, slender pirate was flamboyantly dressed in a white shirt, gold waistcoat, tightly fitted breeches, and a billowing red, silk cape. 'My good Desmond,' he boomed, 'so good to see you, and in such happy circumstances! I knew you had it in you! Just think, one day you can tell your grandchildren how you subdued the _mighty_ Hero of Bowerstone, and took Mourningwood Fort and Brightwall in one slick shot. You can be proud of yourself forever now!'

'Reaver, my fellow!' Balvornen clasped the corrupt Hero's hand, shaking heartily. 'I had a feeling you wouldn't be able to resist dropping in when you heard the news. You were in the vicinity, I gather?'

"Indeed,' Reaver replied, pouring himself a generous glass of port from the bar in a corner, 'I've been prospecting around Knothole Island. Not much there, but then, that's nothing new. When I heard the news, I naturally ordered my men to make a detour around the northern coasts. Had to shoot them when we landed, sadly, since the dimwitted idiots actually wanted to be _payed_ … they never seem to learn.' Reaver winked, and swallowed his port in a single gulp. 'I still have the ship, however, so a new crew should be _relatively_ easy to amass, provided they don't find out I'm strapped for cash at the moment … as far as their wages are concerned, anyway.'

'Your secret's safe here,' Balvornen winked.

'But I didn't come here to warble about my own exploits,' Reaver continued, refilling his glass, 'tell me, how _did_ you manage all this?' Reaver settled on a sofe, with his feet reclined on a low, mahogany table.

Balvornen outlined his campaign to Reaver, with many interruptions and outbursts of merriment from Reaver:

'The strategy was almost flawlessly executed, at least initially. When we attacked Mourningwood Fort, they assumed that we were focused on them, and that we were the only hostile units. I don't know how that recruit got out, since the idea was to let the undercover agent slip out and make it _appear _that we had not noticed him, but he brought so many soldiers out to us that Brightwall had no chance against my other force, well-fortified though it may be. Admittedly, your information is slightly inaccurate: we didn't actually take the Fort, only Brightwall. A certain _somebody_ told the Brightwall force to bring silver ammunition and weapons. All in all, however, we did well. The Fort is useless to me, after all. Now I'm just waiting for the consensus on Oakfield, but their force was depleted when I initiiated proceedings, so I'm sure all is well there. Our foothold will soon be firm, and we can proceed to more prolific issues.'

When Balvornen had finished outlining Sparrow's capture, (cautiously avoiding his failed romantic gestures), Reaver chuckled: 'Well, well, that really _is_ something to tell your grandchildren. I personally have much to thank you for, _mon ami_. I can now wander Albions lush green shores with carefree abandon, without worrying that I'm going to be assassinated by everyone's _favourite_ Hero.'

'You can have bloodstone Manor back, also,' Balvornen added, draining his glass.' 'I must say, she never lived there much. She has a property in Oakfield, protected by ancient enchantments. My wizards should be capable of breaking the enchantments, however, given time. Our targets can't hide there forever.'

'What exactly, do you intend to do with our noble Sparrow?' Reaver asked casually, refilling his glass.

Balvornen grinned. 'That visit I payed to Samarkand proved quite enlightening. They _do_ have some interesting potions. Restricted, naturally, but then, Samarkandians are so like Garth: They create the most ingenious things, then they won't use them for ethical reasons. I discovered one particular invention, Elvira's Grace by name, which I have been hoping will keep the dear lady under control.'

Reaver laughed: 'Oh, you devil, you! Have you tried it yet?'

'All in good time.' Balvornen replied evasively, then continued, 'Now, my man, I believe that this campaign could be as opportune for you as it is for me. I require an entrepreneurial spirit to assist me in getting both sides of the continent under control, and I believe that you're just the man for the job. What do you say?'

Reaver filled their glasses, and raised his own: 'To new beginnings!'

'To new beginnings!' Balvornen agreed.

'And,' Reaver added before they drained their glasses, 'To that day when two brave, handsome, and altogether outstanding individuals (us, in simple terms) met in the tropics…'

…...

**Mourningwood Fort**

'Blast it, they've been thorough!' Major Engells reclined in his chair, rubbing his temples, as he ruminated on their options. Brightwall, a fortified town by default, was as well sealed to them as it had so recently been to their foes. Some of the new invaders were also balverines, while others were a conglomeration of humans, ranging from nobility to ruffians. They were unarguably not a unified military force, and many were apparently bounty hunters and paid swords. Nonetheless, the town was a fortress, wherein Sparrow was a prisoner. In an attempt to negotiate, Engells and Hammer had gone to the gates, only to be sent flying by a volley of gunshot and a pursuant company of bandits, (not one of which returned from their hunt that evening.)

'Do you think this invasion is widespread?' John Swift questioned gruffly. He had been newly appointed by Engells as Captain Swift, and was therefore an important member of their accosted party. 'I mean, do you think that there are large forces sacking other towns?'

'I don't know,' Engells replied, sighing, 'I'd say that, if they needed to keep us busy and draw the forces out of Brightwall, they don't have enough numbers to get the larger towns yet, particularly not Bowerstone. What I'm worried about are the smaller places, say, Oakfield, or Southcliff; Oakfileld, in particular, since their militia had to traipse off to Bowerstone to quell a bandit raid. I think that they may be hoping to get an official foothold, to make invasion easier. If they manage to integrate into society at a small level, they won't have to wait long to take up a full scale invasion. It will be much easier once they have a share in local resources, like crops and mining.'

'What about Sparrow?' Hammer asked, leaning on her war-hammer, 'd'ya think this Balvornen is up to no good with her?'

'I don't like to say,' muttered Engells darkly, groaning at the pounding in his temples.

'I think we should take them on at their own game,' Walter, who had been silent since the beginning of the conference, said determinedly. 'If they want a firm hold on the area, then let's beat them to it. Let's get everyone we can to leave the small settlements, and wall up at Bowerstone. The middling sized towns must be reviewed to make sure they're properly protected. Then, we'll arrange to meet the hostile forces in battle. We'll get the whole army together.' When everyone looked surprised, he stated, 'that's why Major Sparrow got us together, isn't that right? So, why don't we bloody well do what we're meant to be doing-what the Major would say to do?'

'Hear, hear!' agreed Swift.

'I agree, Beck,' Engells sat up, 'but persuading the citizens to just leave their homes is going to be difficult. It would mean leaving everything they own to be destroyed and looted. If they don't go for the plan, we'd have to leave them without protection, and Sparrow would gut me if she thought I intended to do that.'

'But it is a plan,' Hammer said, 'If we get to the most important places first, and stay holed in there with loads of supplies and secret passages out, and even farming land nearby so we can get fresh food, then they'll eventually have to give up the siege and go home. It's not great, but we have a better chance on home ground than they do here, on foreign land.'

'It's not perfect,' Swift interjected, 'but it's something. We can't do nothing, or they won't take long to succeed. What If they just settle down in the west, though? Then _we're_ just prisoners in our own fortification.'

'Only if we never actually get round to battle,' Hammer shrugged. 'First, though, we have to get Sparrow out of Brightwall. I don't know how we'll do it, but I'm worried about her, and we'll probably need her.'

'I agree,' Engells stated, 'I'd never thought she wouldn't be in charge if it did come to war. Swift,' Engells ordered, standing up, 'go and get the troops ready to move out. The rest of you, stay here, and we'll try to come up with a rescue plan. Oh, and Beck, good news and bad news: the good news, you are now to be addressed as Captain Beck. The bad news: you get to convince the Eco Warriors to come to Bowerstone.'

…

**Brightwall**

Sparrow awoke feeling lightheaded and disoriented. She opened her eyes, and realised, with trepidation, that she was no longer in the tent. She wracked her brain, trying to remember being moved, and concluded that it had been achieved while she was drugged. Her new prison was a vast, lavishly decorated bedroom. The gigantic four poster bed was decked in blood red linen, and Sparrow was attired in a clean nightgown, as filmy and white as the previous. She was also chained to the bed, each wrist and ankle bound to the corresponding bedpost. She rattled her chains and growled in frustration, The hero desperately observed the room, hoping for a way to escape, but saw nothing, and knew that using the power of will would only bring the dreaded hour closer.

Meanwhile, in the parlour, Reaver continued lounging on a sofa and whistled under his breath, whilst Balvornen examined a military map. Eventually, Reaver spoke, asking: 'Are you sure that the Elvira's Grace will work?' Balvornen's head jerked up sharply, demonstrating his irritation, before he looked back down and continued to peruse the map: 'It's never failed before, to my knowledge. Why should it now?'

Reaver secretly smiled, thinking, 'There's obviously a first time for everything. You're far too impatient to have waited this long.' He stood, and examined a painting of a landscape. 'How clichéd,' he muttered as he peered at the impressionistic watercolour, before resuming to Balvornen, 'Naturally, I know it will _work_, but what are you going to do afterwards, with hubby and the little monsters in the picture, hmmm?'

Balvornen sighed, and spoke without turning to face the Hero of Skill: 'When my forces penetrate the Homestead, they will execute the man. She can keep her children, as long as they remain secondary to the ones I father. I'm not certain that she'll want them, however, once she receives the balverine blood. She'll probably be more inclined to eat them.'

'Ahh, I see,' Reaver nodded sagely, pressing his nose to the glass of the picture frame to help him ascertain if a white blob on the lake was a duck or a water lily, 'So ultimately, you intend to secure her affections when she becomes a balverine.' Balvornen grunted non-comittally.

In the bedroom, Sparrow had resigned herself to, at the very least, a pretence of submission to Balvornen. How successful this strategy would be depended on how much he expected. In other words: she doubted she would successfully escape before Balvornen became impatient and bypassed her admittedly transparent ruse. 'I can cope with it myself, she thought mournfully, 'but what will ultimately happen to the children and Bob?' She had barely resigned herself, however, when the door creaked open to admit entrance to a person she had not even remotely expected to see. He was robed in grey, and his dark skin was offset by his eye, which was milky white.

'Garth!' Sparrow gasped.

…..

**Oakfield**

Ultimately, the battle at Oakfield culminated with all enemy units deceased, marginal casualties among the villagers, complete annihilation of the guard force, and the remaining mystery of what had really happened: all the hostile individuals who may have been coerced into talking were dead, and the birds of Oakfield had resumed their natural behaviour. In the spirit of Meredith Sock's popular horror fiction, _Megafowl_, the townsfolk regarded both domesticated and wild aviary creatures with suspicion for a time, yet the birds had apparently reverted to a non-sapient state once again. None had actually spoken during the battle, but the villagers, Bob included, were convinced that they had been fully aware of what was happening at the time, even if they were no longer so. The fire-breathing goose was, notably, absent, possibly because it was difficult to tell one goose apart from another. The robed magician had also vanished at the stage of triumph, leaving nobody to answer the ominous question of why Oakfield had been brutalised. A messenger had been sent to recall their forces in Bowerstone, whilst the village settled down to wait for something to happen.

When Bob had seen the tutors on their way home and, with some difficulty, calmed the children enough to get them to sleep, the gypsy sat in the deepening dusk, wondering what the greater implications of the day may be. He sighed anxiously, wondering where his wife was, and if she was possibly involved in the fiasco. 'I wish the birds had left someone alive to interrogate,' he thought,' anyone would have done, except that wizard that came with the enemies. Good thing we don't have to deal with _that_. Wouldn't have minded a word with the robed one, though. I can't help but feel she has something to do with us … with Sparrow.''

Bob was weary. He could not fathom what would happen next, nor did he know how much danger the town was to expect. Silas, who was hailed town-wide as one of the heroes of the day, expressed a similar concern earlier that evening, as he dressed his wounds by Bob's fire. Despite Bob's unwavering belief that there was more trouble on the horizon, he dozed in his chair by the fire, slipping into a pleasant dream …

Bob woke with a start, in the deep night, when the fire was burning low. He was roused by the presence of violence, and the sound of furniture being knocked asunder. He jumped to his feet, and beheld a sight he had not remotely expected to behold: two women grappling, both robed and hooded. One wore red and white, the other, blue and white…


	8. Too Many Heroes

**This is a short chapter, but I'm working on the next bit now, so if you're enjoying the story, I will be continuing soon.**

**CHAPTER WARNINGS: MILD LANGUAGE, MILD SUGGESTIVE THEMES, MILD VIOLENCE.**

CHAPTER 7

TOO MANY HEROES

Garth strode to the bedside, drawing a slender lockpick from his sleeve, and began picking Sparrow's manacles. 'I'll explain once we're out of here,' he shot quietly, in his customary, curt manner. However, barely had he begun to manoeuvre the innards of the shackle when a key turned in the lock of the bedroom door. Without a sound, Garth bolted under the bed, hidden by the hangings around the sturdy wooden base.

Sparrow turned her head, and beheld Reaver, who furtively slipped into the room, peered down the passage, and closed the door, locking it behind him, 'REAVER!' Sparrow exclaimed, 'I should have guessed …' Her words were muffled as Reaver strode fluidly to her side and clamped one large hand over her mouth. 'Getting ahead of the situation as usual, hmmm?' he whispered. 'Listen, Sparrow, Balvornen thinks I'm on his side, and I was. I still am, to a degree, but I think he's overstepping his bounds with you. I can't release you, as I need Balvornen, I need his power, but I think I can help you get back to that sorry excuse of a husband before Balvornen's lackeys slaughter him. This is how it is: Balvornen was thinking that using the Elvira's Grace potion and transforming you into a balverine would be sufficient to gain your affections if he treated you well, but I managed to persuade him that this won't necessarily be enough, especially not if he kills … was your husband a Dan? Dave? No? Well, whatever. It's up to you to delay him: convince him that you're considering his suit, that you want him to court you properly, and you can divert him long enough for me to get what I need. Then I'll make sure we all get out of this intact, and Balvornen's presumptuous backside gets booted all the way back to the east.'

Reaver released Sparrow's mouth, and stared into her eyes menacingly, warning, 'If you don't like my plan, then I can't be held responsible for what's about to happen to you. And if you tell that overgrown mutt that I've been in here to see you, or even _hint _at what's transpired between us, I will come here, while you are helplessly chained to the bed, and shoot you.' Before retreating, Reaver grinned cheekily and planted a wet kiss of Sparrow's mouth.

Reaver departed the room as stealthily as he had entered, whereupon Garth slithered out from under the bed, and slipped the lockpick back into the manacle. However, he had no time to release Sparrow before footsteps were heard on the landing, and he once again had to shimmy underneath the bed. The door opened, and Balvornen entered, Luise traling behind him: Luise carried a silver tray with a glass and a stoppered bottle.

…...

**Oakfield**

Bob eyed the melee in his sitting room incredulously for a moment, before he shouted irritably, 'Who on earth are you people?' The two figures paid him no heed, and continued to scuffle fiercely. Suddenly, the one in red and white conjured a blizzard of ice, and hurled it at the blue and white robed being, who simultaneously melted the storm with a flash of white fire, which consumed the ice particles. As the fire shielded this second figure from harm, the first lifted its arms and vanished into thin air. The blue robed personage snorted in disgust: 'Coward.' She then turned to Bob, and dropped her hood around her shoulders. She was of middling height, muscular, and her hair was a long, thick, waving curtain of strawberry blonde, hanging loose and tangled around her shoulders. Her skin was milky in colour, and her eyes were deep blue and heavily lidded.

'My sincerest apologies,' the woman said. Her voice, deep for a female, was strong and authoritative, yet also unusually melodious. 'As you may have realised, the other individual was Theresa. Your wife has undoubtedly told you about her.'

'Yes,' Bob replied testily, 'but what on earth was she doing in my house? And with you! Who are you?'

'I go by many names,' replied the enigmatic stranger, 'but you may call me Laura for the time being. As to my purpose here, I just prevented Theresa from murdering you.'

**Thanks for reading! (Subtle Hint: I really, really, really like feedback :)**


	9. Ancient Evil Rises

**This is the next part of the story. All the usual disclaimers apply, and I'm not making any money out of writing this etc ... Thankyou for the latest review (you know who you are :) and thankyou to everyone who's reading this.**

**CHAPTER WARNINGS: MILD LANGUAGE, MILD SUGGESTIVE THEMES, MODERATE VIOLENCE, REASONABLY HIGH HORROR THEMES, DRUG REFERENCES.**

CHAPTER 8

ANCIENT EVIL RISES

**Southcliff**

Captain Swift had successfully organised both soldiers and residents alike in all the settlements that were central to Albion's economy, and had also alerted farms and isolated, smaller settlements to the present perils. The residents had been relocated, with their companies of soldiers, to Westcliff, to remain in the heftily fortified Crucible while they awaited news from Major Engells, who was preparing Bowerstone to receive them. However, when he reached Southcliff, Swift struck bedrock: the soldiers were prepared for battle, but the residents were less than enamoured of the idea of leaving the town.

Swift found himself sparring verbally with Mayor Rufus in his office: 'With all due respect, Sir,' Swift explained, as Rufus sat at his desk examining various papers, 'we provided soldiers for Southcliff on the terms that you would adhere to the strategic judgement of the militia if an emergency occurred.'

'Yes,' replied the Mayor tetchily, slamming a report onto the desk, 'but that was on the understanding that there was somebody here to protect the _town_. If anything happens to Southciff, we'll need to rebuild, and we just can't stand to lose such a an important historical location. It's where the Hero of Southcliff was born, for Heaven's sake …'

'If you stay, you'll all lose your liberty, and possibly your lives;' Swift replied, his mustache twitching fiercely, 'towns can be rebuilt, but lives can't be reclaimed, Sir.'

'Honestly,' Mayor Rufus barked in reply, 'you're worse than Crier Doomsby.'

As if on cue, the town crier piped from the square: 'Shops are now closing! Remember to invest in life insurance, good people!'

Swift stifled a chuckle, and continued, once again grim, 'Please, I must beg that you do what is best for your people.'

Mayor Rufus slumped into his seat, defeated. Wearily, he stated, 'There's something you have to see, Captain. Then you'll understand why we can't come.' As he rose, he continued, with dignity, 'I trust, when you've seen what I must show you, you will forgive my excuses. Also, be aware that you follow me at your own risk.'

**Mourningwood**

Walter Beck trudged through the marsh, leading his group of soldiers. He had not had any success in routing the Eco Warrioris from the Mourningwood Commune. Appareantly, deserting their home was a breach of their code of peace and love, which specified that passive resistance would ostensibly protect them from all evils. Ths appareantly included hollow men who did not actually understand what peace and love meant, much less practiced passive resistance. Walter intended to return to Mournngwood, possibly when Sparrow was retrieved, so that she could persuade them to relocate. For the present, he and his men marched towards the Bower Lake Gypsy Camp, where the residents would, hopefully, not place their faith of wellbeing in the 'little tree sprites' which Sparrow herself insisted were not real.

Walter halted his troop when he noticed a traveller approaching. Undoubtedly a woman, she wore long, blood red, hooded robes, which trailed jet black lace trimmings. Incongruously low cut at the cleavage, the ensemble displayed her ivory fair chest. Her head was obscured by her hood, her face by an ornate, jewel encrusted mask. Naturally suspicious due to recent events, Walter waited until she had approached to hearing distance, intending to question her identity and destination. However, before he could speak, she hailed him: 'Greetings, Captain Beck. A word, if you will.'

**Southcliff**

Mayor Rufus lead Swift through the streets, which Swift had noticed, from the moment he entered the town, carried an atmosphere of uncertainty and dread. Residents avoided the militia, children did not play in the streets, and dogs fled the soldiers, tails between their legs. Fear was present in Southcliff, and, Swift decided, a disproportionate level of hatred, although he could not deduce why.

They travelled into the dusk, through the uncannily silent streets, where the only light available was what filtered through the cracks of curtains and blinds, which shuttered the windows of the houses lining the highway. 'Why aren't the street lights lit?' Swift inquired, biting back a curse as he stubbed his toe on a loose cobblestone.

'Nobody can keep them alight any longer,' replied Rufus dourly, pulling his coat around him tightly and shivering, 'not since people started changing.'

'Changing?' Swift snapped quietly, 'What are you saying, man? Is there a plague? Are people perhaps just going mad around here?'

'You'll see,' Rufus replied ominously, moving into a doorway. 'This is the place. There are others, but I wanted you to understand how demoralising this can truly be.' The Mayor clattered the bell, and was presently greeted by a gentle, brunette maid. 'Liz, I need to show Captain Swift Reginald.'

**Mourningwood**

'Who are you and what is your business in Mourningwood?' Walter faced the unknown woman, unwilling to relax his vigilance, lest she be a balverine or enemy spy. She simply chuckled; the sound was unnatural and sinister, Walter thought, and unlike the voice of a human woman. Admittedly, it was not the _sound_ itself that was uncanny, but the quality. However, there was nothing in the sound to explicitly suggest that it _was _unnatural, it simply triggered a primal dread in Walter.

'Who I am is not important,' she replied, her voice seeming to echo hollowly, 'but my bisuness is, assuredly, your business. You seek a way to expel the hostile forces from your beloved homeland. I can provide this. All I require for now, Walter Beck, is your loyalty. I have no doubt that, once rescued, your leader, the Hero of Bowerstone, will likewise be of a favourable mind towards me, but for now, I need only your cooperation and devotion.'

Walter could not recall what this proposition brought to mind, but something about it made him restive and uneasy. It occurred to him that the stranger reminded him of a banshee. He replied, 'I don't know who you are, and I don't care for you proposition. Stand aside, please.' She did not move, and Walter became increasingly unnerved, and experienced a fear the likes of which he had never imagined. He knew not what he dreaded, yet dread permeated every cell in his body. Once more, the woman demanded, imperiously, 'I require only your loyalty, Walter. Is that so much to ask, when Albion's freedom is at stake?'

Suddenly, the temptress was beside him, embracing him. The dread intensified to an electrifying degree, and Walter, reacting instinctively, shoved her away. He met with thin air, however, and she once again stood several feet away, as if she had never moved. 'You are strong,' she snarled, her voice suddenly oozing with malice and hate, 'We must break you first.' Out of nowhere, a cavalcade of hollow men tumbled out of the surrounding forest, in spite of the high noon sun, and to Walter's disbelief and unadulterated horror, a banshee appeared in their midst. A dense, icy fog surrounded them, blotting out the light of the sun.

**Southcliff**

Swift and Rufus sat and waited. They were in the presence of a sick boy, his father, and the Southcliff doctor, Dr. Wilson. They were waiting for the child, Reginald, to wake. Dr. Wilson had been administering sedatives regularly, since the child 'turned'. After he broke his mother's spine, he had been bound to the bed. Now, they waited for the sedative to wear off in order to witness the monstrous epidemic ravaging Southcliff. Dr. Wilson was adamant that Swift ande Rufus were being intrusive, and were entering against his better judgement. Moreover, withholding the sedative was appareantly dangerous. However, they nonetheless needed to witness the disease, which was not, contradictorily, a disease of the body.

'I don't know what it is,' Dr. Wilson grumbled as Liz, the maid, set a tray of tea on a table in their midst, 'but this is the first child to catch it. If you can say he _caught_ it: it isn't an illness, it's outright lunacy. There's something causing it, though. It started the day that the black cloud formed outside the town.'

'Black cloud?' Swift raised an eyebrow inquisitively at Rufus.

'Three weeks ago, a dense fog settled outside Southcliff,' the Mayor revealed, 'It was some form of mass, just sitting in the middle of the valley. It was too low to be a storm-cloud, too high to be a true fog, and it moved, even though there was no wind … not even a breeze. And there were noises coming out of it, like human speech, but faint. You could hear the wailing of banshees coming from it, though. It dissipated during the night, but people began to go strange. They became violent, took on new personalities. They began committing atrocities in the name of someone called Jack. Who he is, I can't say, but to cut a very sad story short,' he sighed before continuing, 'we had to execute them … the soldiers had to fight them off and kill them in self-defence. Then the soldiers turned …'

'I beg your pardon, Sir,' Swift interrupted, raising an eyebrow, 'but you told me that they were emptying Hobbe lairs in the valley.'

'I didn't want any more outside involvement,' the mayor replied, hanging his head, 'we can't stop this bloodbath, Captain. This is the first child we've had who turned. The first thing he did was snap his mother's spine, like she was a chicken, and turn on his father. We don't know what to do; we'll probably have to execute him, too, unless we can find a cure. If his strength grows like the others, we won't have time to help him.'

The child's father stood and hurried out of the room. Swift was sharp: 'Perhaps, Sir, some tact would have been desirable.'

'He has to know,' Rufus snapped, 'The child probably hasn't got long. Besides, it's _not Reginald anymore_. It's _not the same person_.' You'll see soon enough.'

'Hush,' the Doctor interjected, 'he's stirring.'

Reginald shifted, opened his eyes, looked fearfully at the three strange men surrounding his bed, and whimpered pitifully, 'Mum!'

'MAYOR RUFUS!' Swift bellowed, 'WHERE'S THE PROBLEM?'

'Please, Captain,' Dr. Wilson shushed, 'this is a trick. He pretends the boy's still in there, (maybe he is, I don't know), but the moment he's free, it takes two strong adults to get him under control. The monster isn't absent for long.'

'Well, then, let's put this monster to the test,' Swift stated dryly, 'because, quite frankly, I think you're trying to dupe me, although I'm damned if I know why.'

'Alright, then,' replied the Doctor, ushering Mayor Rufus back to stand against the wall with him, 'but be it on your own head to get him bound again, and we'll not be held responsible if you're injured or killed.'

Swift realised that the two men were terrified beyond reason, terrified of the slight, fearful child in the bed, and decided that his convictions may have been hasty. He approached the bedside with renewed caution, and Reginald tensed, and began crying: 'What have you done with Mum? Why've you tied me up? I'm frightened! Please let me see Mum!'

'Now there, now there,' intoned Swift, tugging at the bonds, 'you're safe here. We'll get you out of these ropes and to your father.'

Reginald whimpered and cried while Swift unbound him, and peered around in bewilderment when the ropes fell away. The bewilderment endured for a few moments, after which the monster hidden in the child did indeed appear: Reginald, or what had been Reginald, rose and knocked Swift's feet from underneath him. The astonished soldier attempted to stand, but the child set upon him, biting and clawing violently, slicing several open wounds into the Captain's flesh. Eventually, after supreme effort, Swift managed to hurl the boy back onto the bed and bind him again, with much profanity and violence on the part of whatever was residing inside Reginald.

'Alright,' Swift panted when Reginald was once again secured, and they had closed the door on his obscene screams, 'I believe you now, and this is what we're going to do: Whatever this is, it's beyond our authority, and it's much more likely to be attached to the town, not the people. All residents will vacate Southcliff except the affected ones, and Major Sparrow will visit them as soon as she's available to decide what can be done. These shall stay here in town with you and some soldiers.'

''Are you sure it's the town?' Rufus asked nervously.

'I may be wrong, but it is part of our training to be able to identify curses and suchlike things,' replied Swift.

**Thanks for reading!**


	10. Not Another One

**Hi everyone, here's chapter 9. I hope you like it!**

**CHAPTER WARNINGS: MINOR VIOLENCE, MINOR SUGGESTIVE THEMES. **

**CROSSOVER REFERENCES: I do reference two other works of fiction, but this isn't a crossover fiction.**

CHAPTER 9

NOT ANOTHER ONE …

Sparrow was reposing in a mountain meadow near Brightwall with Balvornen. They were sitting on a picnic mat, with a picnic basket, and a picnic feast, in the midst of wildflowers and songbirds. Balvornen wore a smart walking suit, and Sparrow a white walking dress which Balvornen had provided. 'Maybe I should twirl around with my arms out and sing about the mountains just to complete the picture,' Sparrow thought caustically as she pretended to enjoy herself. 'At least he brought good food,' she consoled herself, sampling another helping of fine cheese.

The reason that Sparrow was sitting placidly in a meadow while mentally desperate and impatient to escape was that, after managing to charm herself out of swallowing Balvornen's potion, Reaver's plan had begun to work, in a sense. Balvornen was pleased, but understandably suspicious, and allowed Sparrow autonomy under the compromise that she have no access to weapons, be heavily supervised constantly, and wear a will-subduing bracelet, that prevented her from using her power.

Sparrow was surprised that Balvornen's troops had behaved honourably in regard to Brightwall, and had not plundered the town or molested the villagers. However, this had been Balvornen's express order, which may, in turn, have been a ploy to gain Sparrow's approval. However, Balvornen himself was not entirely repulsive, being intelligent, witty, and well-travelled. Despite these qualities, his narcissism, selfishness, and sadistic nature rendered him undesirable to Sparrow in general. Nonetheless, it was not as difficult as she had expected to feign interest in his conversation, in spite of her necessarily meagre contributions. Indeed, if not for his ego, he may have been pleasant to spend time with.

There was another aspect to Sparrow's docility: Sparrow was content to bide her time in the meadow, because Reaver had arranged a surprise for Balvornen-theoretically, at least. On the day of the ill fated 'rescues', after Balvornen had fastened the enchanted bracelet around her wrist and locked her into her room, (the only place where she was not under supervision), Garth had finally emerged from his hiding place under the bed. He had snapped angrily, 'I'm sorry. If not for that idiot' (in reference to Reaver) 'I would have had you out by now. I will allow him to enact his _rescue plan_, as mine is somewhat redundant now.'

'Why?' Sparrow had inquired, shocked by the unexpected turn of events: she had assumed that Garth would continue with his plan.

'Because of the bracelet,' Garth replied. 'It's not the same as the collar you had at the Tattered Spire, but the release mechanism is the same in principle: I don't have the key, so I'd have to use will to remove it, and if I do, Balvornen will simply catch us both. If you try to leave the premises wearing it, he will likewise be alerted.'

Sparrow bit back a curse, and inquired curtly, 'I wonder if Reaver knows how to deactivate it?'

'I doubt it, but I'll see if he can do anything while I think of a better plan,' Garth had replied. 'In the meantime, I will remove myself to a place where I can blend in.' Without another word, the angry magician had picked the lock, left the room gently, and re-engaged the lock from the passage.

The days since had not been unenjoyable, yet Sparrow was impatient to escape, and Reaver seemed in no hurry to assist her, undoubtedly a reflection of his own interest in Balvornen's schemes. Fortunately, she was only forced to see his simpering face at dinnertime, where she learned various interesting morsels about the relationship between the two men, and their pasts: Reaver's past interested her particularly, yet he never went far back enough for her to learn about what happened in Oakvale when Reaver made his pact with the Shadow Court. 'I suppose Balvornen wasn't alive yet at the time, anyway,' she mused. To summarise: Balvornen was friendly with all manner of rogues and criminals. and managed to benefit from their enterprises by discreetly assisting their schemes, (providing that they left his own citizens alone). In this way, Balvornen strenghtened his own society through weakening neighbours. Obviously not shy of open water, Balvornen enjoyed sailing, and had voyaged as far as the unmapped islands clustered throughout the seas west of the continent. Here, he met Reaver, and a mutual exploitation disguised as friendship had evolved.

Sparrow's other meals, and teatimes in the morning and afternoon, were spent isolated with Balvornen, who insisted that she refer to him as Desmond, and organised various , ostensibly romantic, activities for them: wine tasting, parties, walks, banquets, balls, and now this picnic, where Sparrow hoped Reaver would finally do _something_. Undoubtedly, Reaver was taking advantage of the picnic because, unlike the other events, she and her captor would be isolated together. (Who, after all, attends a balll in a siezed town besides the conqueror's cronies?)

Reaver had informed Sparrow what he had in mind early that morning, a week after she awoke in captivity. Sparrow had woken at the click of Reaver's 'borrowed' key in the lock of her room, and sat up, squinting sleepily in the flicker of the guttering candles. Reaver entered, locking the door behind him, and sidled up to her, gazing at her in rapture. 'Oh, but you are lovely,' he murmered into her ear, as much to avoid making a noise as to attempt a seduction, 'You have no idea the thoughts I have when I see you in that nightgown,'

'Shut up, Reaver,' Sparrow hissed, cautious to keep her voice low.

Reaver sighed, and his voice became bored, 'Alright, you escape tomorrow. I've hired some assassins. I used a middleman, (who should have hit the bottom of the riverbed by now), so they think that the mutt's right hand, er - _person_, Hilarion, hired them. The men are going to ambush you tomorrow, when you go on the picnic your _beloved's_ so thoughtfully arranged. They're going to meet certain death, of course, which they don't know, but when they attack, _his lordship_ will be distracted for at least a minute. I cut a replica of the key to the bracelet personally, while you two lovebirds were dallying in the starlight, (being a thief has its benefits), but _don't use it here_, because it will trigger an alarm. Only use it when he's busy dodging cleavers. The assassins will all be on horses, so by the time your _betrothed_ is done mauling them, you'll have a head start, your magic back, and hopefully the weapons off one of the corpses. And just for future reference, the horses cost me extra.'

'The weapons won't be silver?' Sparrow inquired.

'No, my dear, I don't want him dead, do I?' Reaver replied, stroking her hair. 'So soft …' he crooned, before his hand was swatted away sharply.

'Cant you think about anything but your own agenda for once?' Sparrow snapped.

'Goodness, but why?' he replied, 'My own agenda is my personal favourite.'

'And when he works out it was you?' Sparrow questioned.

'Why should he?' Reaver replied, 'they don't know who hired them. If he let's any of them survive, the only suspect will be Hilarion.'

'This had better work, Reaver,' Sparrow threatened.

'My dear, never fear, your Reaver will free you,' he whispered, pressing the handcut key into her hand. Before he left, (much to Sparrow's irritation,) he nibbled her ear gently. 'Is that all he ever thinks about?' she wondered as the lock clicked back into place.'

Thus, Sparrow sat in the meadow, eating her fill and waiting for events to unfold. The little key was tucked safely away in her corset, where it would not be detected, and she hoped avidly that Reaver's plan would not backfire.

Balvornen was informing Sparrow on the mythology of the fearsome kraken when the ambush occurred: 'And so, the unfortunate Captain Sparrow …' he trailed off to the sound of hoofbeats, and peered towards the rise nearby, over which twenty armed horsemen charged. 'Interesting,' Balvornen said, his mouth curling into a mocking smile. 'Excuse me, my dear, but I feel a sudden need for fresh meat.' Balvornen transformed, to the obvious dismay of the assassins, who attempted to rein their horses around. However, Balvornen was too fast, and charged at them fiercely, quickly felling one before turning on the others.

As soon as Balvornen had charged, Sparrow yanked the key from within the folds of her dress. However, she had no opportunity to use it before a large figure appeared over the rise. At any other time, Sparrow would have been overjoyed to see her, but now, all she could think was, '_I don't believe it! Why NOW?_'

Hammer bolted towards Sparrow, at which point Balvornen immediately lost interest in the assassins, and pounced towards Hammer, who swung her warhammer at him. Theoretically, Hammer should have been able to kill Balvornen; she was armed with a giant, silver hammer; several premium assassins had a contract on the invader; and Balvornen had no back up. However, the assassins proved eager to escape alive, and abandoned their target, leaving Hammer locked in combat with the balverine, and Hammer found that Balvornen was not eager to come close enough to be hit, but was close enough to be a danger to her. In addition, he had howled as soon as he spied Hammer, and Sparrow suspected that this had been a signal for assistance to his fellow balverines. Hammer remained in battle, hoping for a chance to strike, and Sparrow realised, 'There are no horses now, and we can't outrun a group of balverines. I'm just going to have to sit tight, and hope we get a chance again. Undoing the bracelet's no good, since then it'll be obvious I'm trying to excape. I just hope that _Desmond _doesn't decide to force feed me a love potion any time soon' She mentally vented her exasperation, 'Oh Hammer, what in goodness name did you think this would achieve?'

As expected, a selection of eastern soldiers appeared, many of them Balverines, led by Hilarion. Thus, Hammer's chances of success evaporated.

**Thanks for reading! If you have any thoughts on this story, please let me know by reviewing or on my forum.**


	11. Conception of Nightmares

**Hi everyone. This chapter is from Walter Beck's POV, and the POV is going to alternate between characters from this chapter on. **

**CHAPTER WARNINGS: MINOR LANGUAGE, MINOR VIOLENCE, MINOR HORROR THEMES.**

CHAPTER 10

CONCEPTION OF NIGHTMARES

If that creature (what she was I couldn't tell) hadn't been there, I would never have expected a banshee in Mourningwood. True, it's a cesspit filled with hollow men, but banshees don't generally go there. Not cursed enough, I suppose. (Compare it to Oakvale.) The other _thing_ in the robes meant that, in a way, I was less surprised than the others when the banshee and her spawn appeared. I believe, and I think that Sparrow would agree, that this is when I started to use one of my _popular_ catchphrases.

'Balls!' I gasped as the hollow men rampaged out of the forest unexpectedly. There were uncountable wisps, what's more, waiting to create more when the ranks were depleted. I decided, in that wonderful way that you learn in the military which involves intricate planning without actually realising that you thought anything through, that I'd best take on the banshee, while the others concentrated on the hollow men. And so, I bellowed out the orders, (don't ask me exactly what I said, all I know is it must have been intelligible), and they all did me proud: It's something grand when you're in charge of your first company, and they all charge at the enemy, guns firing, swords out. There wasn't a moment of hesitation or hint of fear in any of them.

I can't say I'm proud of my first banshee. I know that Sparrow did far better, whatever she says. She would never, and has never, let the things get to her. With me, I somehow wasn't ready for it, although I knew what it was going to do. I also knew it would be Lucy: It took on her face, her form, it pleaded with me to just let go, come join her in death. The spawn-shadows looked to me like our children (Lucy and mine). I think, with the strength of mind I now have, I would have fared far better. As it was, we all suffered that day because of my weakness. I've forgiven myself; banshees are among the most hostile, undermining creatures on this earth, and I was only green at the time. But every day of my life, I damn that banshee to hell.

I still hear that creature in my nightmares. I hear Lucy's voice. She says: 'Walter, come to me now. It's alright; you've done your best. The others just aren't going to win this one. You've done everything you can for them, and Major Sparrow would understand. Just come to me now, and forget about all this stupidity. The children miss you.' The '_children_' also spoke to me, and cried that they missed me. I spent too much time just dodging attacks, agonising over it: I didn't think that this was my dead beloved in front of me, I just realised, as the monster trickled its posion into my ears, that I didn't want to live, really, not without Lucy. Lucy didn't have to die. Blast those balverines!

I was too absorbed in my own self-pity, not getting on with the job of killing the wraith, that I hardly noticed how the others were struggling with the entirely too large influx of hollow men. I should have realised that there were far too many, even for Mourningwood, or at least wondered were the robed spectre had gone to. But by the time I worked up the guts to nail that bloody banshee, I realised that only two of my brigade, both men, were still alive.

'RETREAT!' I bellowed, and we did. Futile, I know: running through the marshy forest with several hundred corpses shuffling along behind you. We managed to get ahead of the horde enough for me to suggest hiding in a cave we passed. It seemed alright at the time, as we'd been running for an hour or so with no let up. Turned out I was a blithering idiot to suggest it.

The idea was fine at first, since the hollow men shuffled past us. (They rely on sound and visibility to track; no sense of smell or anything like that left). But then, as we crouched silently in the musty darkness, the gloom of twilight gathering outside, we saw a silhouette at the entrance. It was the robed, masked woman. Her voice, well, I'll call it demonic. She laughed, and sent shudders down my back. The other two as well, I should think. Then, she lifted her arms, and pure, pulsing energy shot from her palms, bringing down the entrance to the cave. We were trapped: no food, water, or help coming. I couldn't do anything it, leader though I was.

'Balls,' I said again. I was a failure.

**Thanks for reading! Please, if you have any constructive criticism, share it so I can improve!**


	12. A Friend Among Wolves

**Hi there, and welcome to the next part of the story!**

**CHAPTER WARNINGS: MINOR VIOLENCE, MINOR LANGUAGE.**

CHAPTER 11

A FRIEND AMONG WOLVES

_**Sparrow**_

Hammer and I were duly imprisoned together. Our captor had only spared her, I suspect, on the grounds that killing my best friend would have rather ruined his efforts to win me. The room we were locked in was a sitting room, which _Desmond_ ordered redecorated, and dedicated to the use of his two lady _guests_. I suppose it did mean we could talk privately, since Hammer was apparently going to be detained in her own bedroom in the evenings. Unfortunately, Hammer's ill – begotten plan had agitated Balvornen's already suspicious mind; he held no illusions in regard to what I would do if I had the means to escape, and I wondered if Hammer's well – meaning interference would cost me dearly.

In spite of what is commonly believed, a saint I am not, and when Hammer attempted to sooth me by commenting, 'At least we get to be together again,' I replied most ungraciously. What did I say? Here's a hint: '! #$%^&*' Hammer simply guffawed, grinning widely; 'Blimey, I never expected to hear _you _cuss like that!' I softened somewhat, but admonished her sternly nonetheless, 'And _I_, my friend, never took you as a fool.'

'I'm not,' she replied, unconcernedly enjoying the buttered crumpets. Who can blame her, though? I myself had been trying to save my energy for the right moment, and had enjoyed much of my captors excellent foodstuffs. Not that I could ever match the sheer bulk of Hammer's appetite. She continued between mouthfuls: 'How was I to know that you'd be there with that hulk? I was only doing a bit of fieldwork.'

I sighed, feeling weary and agitated, but realising that Hammer had obviously not intended for anything to happen. 'Look, Hammer,' I apologetically replied, 'I'm sorry to be so short, and I'm overjoyed to see you in principle. I'm just on edge, and it's not just about other people for once. If I get transformed into a monster, I'll be an unstoppable source of evil. It'd be even worse than if _you_ were a balverine, since I can use magic. Do you have any reassuring news whatsoever about all this?'

When Hammer informed me, in low tones in case of eavesdroppers, of her part in the siege at Mourningwood Fort, (which had been darkly hinted at by Balvornen when he and his men had finally subdued Hammer,) I was, I confess, heartened and cheered by the news. Lucy Parker's passing was unwelcome, as is the death of any soldier, yet I think that my (probably overt) interest in Walter Beck made me all the more sorrowful for the occurance than I have been about many equally tragic deaths. I was, of course, as proud of my dear friend Hammer as I always have been, and as I observed her demeanour and tone, I realised that she had matured greatly since we parted at the Tattered Spire. I was also gladdened by the news that our forces were convening for action, and that other settlements would, hopefully, not share Brightwalls present fate. All I hoped for, thus informed, was the chance to escape, or otherwise a successful rescue.

When Hammer had completed her narrative, punctuated with appropriate comments from myself, I begged her (only half jokingly), 'If you think of any way to escape, _please_ give me a detailed analysis, so that I can stop Garth or Reaver from sabotaging it.'

'Are _they_ here?' Hammer spluttered, surprised.

'_Oh_, yes,' I replied, recounting their failed rescue attempts. While the absurdity of the situation had not escaped me, I had not at any point been amused by what had transpired. However, Hammer's infectious laughter made me see the funny side of the fiasco more clearly, and I could only laugh with her.

When I'd finished, Hammer chuckled, 'I'll be blowed. Well, I suppose it's my turn now, since we've decided to ignore the fact we're prisoners: I'm married.'

'What!' I gasped, (and I'm afraid it was as much from disbelief as delight,) 'Hammer, that's wonderful! When did it happen?'

Two years ago,' Hammer replied through a mouthful of her twelfth iced tea-cake. 'His name's Paul. He's one of the male monks from the monastery I lived at. We left the monastery just after the wedding, though. We've been living in the town, but we're considering moving further south to where it's warmer, so I thought that now would be a good time to come back down, catch up with you, see the sights and all that. You know the rest' She finished her sentence with a slurp of tea – black and sugary, the way she liked it.

'Congratulations!' I giggled, patting her on the shoulder and feeling like a teenager again. 'I just hope you get to see him again. Where's the ring, by the way?'

'I don't usually wear it,' Hammer replied, munching a scone, 'I'd just ruin it, knowing me, or lose it. Paul's keeping it for me.'

So the conversation continued, with much warmth and camaraderie. I swear, never did an afternoon of my captivity pass so quickly as that I spent in Hammer's company. As the sun began to slant through the trees in the reds and pinks of eventide, Balvornen unlocked the door and entered. 'Ladies,' he announced, 'I have special plans for dinner tonight, if you would be so kind as to dress appropriately. Madame Hammer, I've had the town's best seamstress prepare a gown made to your measurements. One of the servants is waiting to assist you.'

Hammer glowered at Balvornen, and departed in the company of three hefty guards. I prepared to follow, but found my way barred by Balvornen. 'One moment, pet. I think we need to chat.' He closed and locked the door, and indicated to a seat. I lowered myself into the chair, and Belvornen knelt in front of me. 'The time has come, my dear. Madame Hammer's _rescue_ was, for lack of a better phrase, imbecilic. However, I feel uncomfortable having my fair prize at a loose end. You understand, I'm sure, when I say it's time: make your choice.'

Crunch time, then. I talked. It's always better than nothing, and buys time. 'What happens to Hammer if I agree?'

He chuckled, 'Well, I always welcome heroes into my ranks. Once you've experienced being a balverine, I'm sure your friend will be amenable to joining you, with your encouragement. If she prefers to remain human, she's equally welcome, of course.'

'What happens to her if I refuse … theoretically?'

'Then both of you are forced to transform.'

'What if she doesn't want to join you when I do?'

'Then she dies.'

'And the special arrangements for tonight?'

'It is a full moon, dearest. Time for the transformation ceremony. We will celebrate afterwards with a feast worthy of Albion's future queen, and her best friend.'

I decided that the best thing to do would to wait and see where the ceremony would be taking place, get as close to the town gates as possible, subtly let Hammer know we were making a break, and hope against all odds that we'd either manage to break free, or Garth would come to the rescue. Reaver had none of my faith anymore, (not that he'd ever inspired much confidence,) although I did plan to unlock the bracelet at the appropriate moment, and was at least grateful for his key. OK, you can say it: the plan was dismal. But it was the best there was. Remember, I didn't have a slippery canine friend anymore to help, and I had Hammer to think of as well. I opened my mouth to pretend to agree to Balvornen's proposal, when there was a sudden commotion downstairs. Balvornen and I both stilled, listening.

From below, we could hear shattering glass, heavy thumps, shouts, gunfire, and the grinding of metal against metal. I could also sense the presence of an ancient, overpowering magic. Balvornen evidently also felt it. He snarled, bolted to the door, and left, locking me in. I listened, wishing I could know what was going on beneath me. After a minute or two, I heard the noises approaching the stairs, mounting them, and reaching the landing where my room was located. As they did, I heard a forceful female voice bellow, 'SPARROW, GET THAT BRACELET OFF NOW, AND STAY AWAY FROM THE DOOR!' I did without hesitation, hoping that rescue was nigh. The dainty key opened the lock with a satysfying click, and as the bracelet slipped from my risk, I felt the heady sensation of my magic flowing back into my veins. Moments later, the door was blown off its hinges in a shattering explosion, and in the doorway stood a woman I had never seen before. She was red headed, blue eyed, and wore robes of white and blue.

**Thanks for reading! Please review with thoughts and suggestions!**


	13. Wights and Bites

**Hi there guys! Here's the next chapter. I hope you enjoy it!**

**CHAPTER WARNINGS: MODERATE VIOLENCE, MODERATE LANGUAGE**

CHAPTER 12

WIGHTS AND BITES

_**Sparrow**_

When you're in a combat situation, your mind doesn't necessarily register things the same way it usually does. One tends to become hyper alert to things that are of immediate importance, such as strategy, self – preservation, use of fighting techniques, etc. This does mean that things not related to the preservation of life, be it your own or another's, may come across abnormally. I think that my experience following the explosive appearance of the enigmatic sorceress illustrates this rather well.

The powerful stranger snapped, 'No time to explain! Here!' and my sword and pistol appeared around my waist in my halter belt, which was fastened around my magically restored armour. The dress I had worn moments ago had, apparently, evaporated. I didn't give this much heed as I sped into the large passage.

Balvornen was there, as were his men. All of our opponents were in balverine form. There's not much I can say about the fight in coherent terms. It was a truly surreal experience for me, and coming from me, you know that it has to have been epically surreal. This is somewhat like the way my mind registered it in real time:

'_Silver sword! OK, slash, parry, stab, chain, block, dodge, backstab, FIREBALL! No you don't! (Crack as pistol discharges.) Silver bullets! (crack, crack, crack, crack.) SLOW TIME! (Reload pistol). What the heck, is that a pink balverine! No, it's Hammer. (Hammer decapitates balverines with restored silver hammer. Hammer is no longer pink.) CONFUSION SPELL! Ah, now I know something I never wanted to know. This sorceress is STRONG! Who on earth is she? Combo, block, parry, stab. Garth's here. OK then, good. (Crack crack crack crack crack.) SLOW TIME! (Reload pistol). Who is that guy in blue, white, and gold. Good grief, it's a hollow man! No, wait … oh, not now Sparrow! (Crack crack crack crack.) No time for last bullet! BLOCK!'_

So, you get the idea.

_**Hammer**_

Best seamstress in town my posterior. I looked like a block of lard dressed in a pink umbrella. A very frilly, pink umbrella. Then the door exploded.

The guy standing there was, basically, a corpse. He was walking, and wearing gold armour with blue and white bits of clothing around, but he didn't look alive. Then he spoke: 'Quickly, Hero. I have your weapon.' My good ol' silver hammer appeared in my hands. He said, 'The escape is underway. The Hero of Bowerstone requires your assis …' I bowled past him before he finished. Didn't realise till later, when Sparrow was teasing me about it, that he didn't get a chance to ditch the dress and conjure up my robes.

Sparrow was in good form. So was the woman with her. Bloody hell, but was that woman good! She mainly cast spells, but she could also use a sword and pistol. I did wonder if she had anything to do with Theresa, but decided not. Then Garth appeared out of nowhere. Well, not literally out of nowhere; he actually came through a window in one room and heard the fight. 'Hiya, Garth!' I shouted. 'You're a bit late!' He didn't answer. Stick in the mud.

Then, all of a sudden, the woman hollered, 'Scythe, time to LAUNCH THE BIRDIE!'

Didn't think about it at first, then I stopped dead in my tracks. I must have shouted it, from what Garth said after, but I thought I was just thinking at the time: 'Scythe? SCYTHE! THE Scythe? But didn't they make him up? Like, sure, he may've been real, but wasn't he actually just a normal hero pretending to be immortal, or a series of heroes pretending to be the same one, or …'

_**Sparrow**_

For the record, I did realise that this man must be either the real Scythe, or something very similar. I could feel him radiating power, as did the sorceress. When the woman shouted to 'launch the birdie', there was this clap of thunder, and a white box, like a doorway, appeared out of nowhere, just standing there. Scythe jumped in, followed by Garth, (who seemed very comfortable with the whole thing, I must say.) The woman stood on the threshold, if you can name it thus, and beckoned. I kicked Hammer in the shins to rouse her. 'Come ON, Hammer!' She looked at me like she'd just woken up, looked at the shining doorway, gasped, 'Blimey, I didn't notice that before!' blustered over, and leaped through after the woman. I followed.

As I entered the gap, I cried out in pain as a hundred scalding needles sliced into my calf. I looked back, and saw Balvornen latched onto my leg, teeth injecting his transforming venom. 'I'm not your PROPERTY!' I bellowed, drawing my pistol and firing my last silver bullet: he was not fast enough, and in a moment, Lord Balvornen lay dead in a pool of his tainted blood, and I was falling through the light.


	14. Revelations

**Just before the chapter starts, I want to apologise if anybody does not like the fact that I have put an Original Character (Laura) in a pivotal role that is not actually in any of the Fable games. I do have a good reason, which will become clearer as the story progresses. Also, the chapter title has nothing to do with Silent Hill :)**

**The weapons described in this chapter are taken directly from Fable II and Fable III, and I take no credit for inventing them.**

**CHAPTER WARNINGS: MINOR LANGUAGE, PRESENCE OF ALCOHOL, DEPICTION OF OUTDATED (GORY) MEDICAL PRACTICE, HEAVY HORROR THEMES AND SOME GORY VIOLENCE **

CHAPTER14

REVELATIONS

_**Sparrow**_

I found myself standing upright in a room. I wasn't really paying attention to what it looked like, since the balverine venom was doing dreadful things to me. It felt like I had the population of a beehive zooming around under my skin. I heard the female say brusquely, 'She's been bitten. We must act fast. She won't transform here, since we're in stasis, but she'll die if I don't treat it.' Next thing I knew, she poked a needle into my arm, and I collapsed.

When I came to, the woman was standing over me, binding my wound. She looked at me narrowly from behind her matted hair, and said, 'You're lucky I can cure lycanthropy, Hero, or I would have had to kill you, and that's something I have no desire to do.'

'Thank you,' I said gratefully, sitting up. I felt quite weak, but not particularly unwell. I noticed a bowl of blood beside the bed: she must have bled me to drain the poison. 'Who are you?'

She smiled crookedly. 'As to _who _I am, that's a long story. My name, for the moment, is Laura. For want of a better explanation, I'm Theresa's rival.'

I was intrigued. 'Tell me more.'

'In a moment,' Laura replied, washing her hands at a basin. (This basin, unlike any I've seen in Albion, had a tiny pump which could be activated simply by turning a spoke on top.) Then, she disappeared, and returned with a tray. 'Here, dear, I have your favourite tofu, and a meat pie, and we'll have blueberry pie for pudding. There's also some coffee, and some good wine. I would have gotten some Green Fairy liqueur from Knothole Island, but that's so strong, and we need clear heads.' I was alarmed that she already knew so much about me, although, if she was anything like Theresa, I shouldn't have been surprised. She knew, of course, what I was thinking, and said, 'Don't worry, dear, I haven't been spying on you. I do know quite a lot about you, but I'm not Theresa. I only want to help, and I'll never control you or manipulate you, unless you do something irredeemably stupid. You have my word of honour.' She propped up my pillows, and set a large portion of food and a scalding cup of coffee in front of me. Certainly nothing like Theresa; when I got sick as a child, Theresa used to act as if nothing was wrong, and I had to perform as well as always, or she beat me. And no, I'm not wallowing in self – pity, just stating a fact.

Thus began a lengthy conversation about many things. Laura revealed to me many revelations, among which I discovered the true history of my ancestor, the Hero of Oakfield, and that Theresa was, of all things, his sister. I was stunned, and somewhat spooked. In addition, I learned that Elvira Grey, (as in, the corpse that Bowerstone's former grave- keeper Victor Shelly reanimated to become his wife, and fell in love with me for about ten seconds,) was the Hero of Oakfield's second wife, and the one by which he had the child who continued the bloodline. My ancestor! (Apparently, he had a chance to expose her as a dark witch before they married, but he was so besotted that he didn't. When he caught her trying to murder their infant daughter, of whom she had become jealous, he exposed her, and she was decapitated. Evidently, according to Laura, the Hero was so well loved that nobody would believe him when he insisted that he'd known for years about his wife's secret. They just claimed that he'd been under a lust spell, and continued to idolise him.) Afterwards he became Guildmaster of the Heroe's for a time, then retired to Serenity Farm, _my home_, and lived with his third wife, Jill, who was young enough for the aged hero to die before her. Incidentally, also according to Laura, the Hero was originally titled Chicken Chaser, and took the title of Avatar when he gained acclaim, because he deemed himself, in his words, 'An Avatar, directed by benevolence and justice to help the good and destroy the evil.' His personal name was Eric.

Now, should I believe her? Possibly she had ill motives, yet somehow, I sensed that I could trust her. Nonetheless, I hoped I wasn't making a mistake.

_**Hammer**_

So, anybody wondering which weapons we've been using? Right, then, let's start with Sparrow's. So, Sparrow has a huge collection, and there's a weapon from pretty much every category. Her favourite has always been the Diachi, a katana that was supposed to have belonged to a female hero monk from Samarkand. She found it in Wraithmarsh, and has always liked how fast and effective it is. Right now, though, swords are more popular, so she's been using Judge's Steel, which is a sword with really benevolent power. It supposedly belonged to some really pious bloke called the 'White Judge', who struck down all evil in his path. She got it from the _Box of Secrets_ in Knothole Island. That's the one she has with her now. When she's fighting shadow demons and banshees, though, she prefers the Rising Sun, which I remember well from my days at the Temple of Light. She usually likes cleavers the least, but this one does have really good vibes, which the most evil enemies seem to hate. The Temple bestowed it to her when she saved them from the Temple of Darkness, and pretty much crunched the Temple of Darkness to smithereens.

Sparrow always preferred gunpowder to bowstrings, so even though she has a collection of archery weapons, she doesn't really use them. They're out of date now, anyway, since the weapon mechanisms for guns have become so advanced. Sparrow has always liked pistols best 'cause they're fast, and she can draw them quickly if she's using a sword or magic. Her favourite is the Red Dragon, which she won for being such a good shot at the Westcliff Shooting Range. It has a history connected to Reaver, which I think makes him a bit uncomfortable. She has the Red Dragon with her at the moment.

Ok, now to Garth, Reaver, and me. Garth, well, he has a dagger, and can cause an earthquake with his mind. You know. Reaver, as everyone seems to know, uses the Dragonstomper.48. Me, well, my old hammer was the Absolver. I don't use it now because, honestly, it's brilliant, but I actually tore it out from a statue in the Wellspring Caves when I went to try and rescue Father. So, I've had a new one made, (obviously a silver one,) which I called the Resolver. It looks a lot like the Absolver. I left the Absolver with Paul, and it's sort of like a family heirloom. (We do want kids one day.)

Why, you may ask, am I telling you all this? Well, I'm bored out of my skull is why. I don't like this Scythe much. He's creepy. Garth and him get on like a house on fire. (Figures). So, while they've been talking about something called the 'space – time continuation' (I think), I've also been eating some of the food that Laura person left for us, (which is good stuff), and being relieved that Sparrow's alright. There's also a gorgeous dog in here: a Border Collie, I've been playing with it and talking to it. It reminds me of old Sirius, Sparrow's husky that Lucien shot.

_**Sparrow**_

When I found out that Theresa had tried to kill Bob, I was furious, She'd contributed to Rose's death, the Abbot of the Temple of Light's death (a.k.a. Hammer's Father,) and had generally been ruthless about how she achieved her goals. I didn't understand, though, why Bob was a target. I asked, 'Why did she do it?'

Laura replied gravely, 'I suspect she felt that you would have to become Queen faster than expected in the light of recent events, and the best way would be to marry a successful invader. Also, she seems to have an obsession with blood curses and the undead at the moment. She apparently thought that you would be more beneficial as a balverine … and with a lower moral threshold.'

'But wasn't Balvornen the actual problem here?'

Laura sighed, 'Oh, no. I'm afraid this is just getting started.'

**Thanks for reading! Please review and advise!**


	15. What has this got to do with ORBS?

**Hi there readers! Here's the next chapter. I hope you enjoy it! Look out for a couple of character cameos from other media, (although this is not a crossover fiction).**

**CHAPTER WARNINGS: MILD HORROR THEMES**

CHAPTER 15

WHAT HAS THIS GOT TO DO WITH ORBS?

_**Sparrow**_

Life in limbo was chaotic, to say the least. Not that everywhere in limbo is chaotic, if limbo could be said to have wheres.

Laura had several travelling companions. The construction we were in was, by appearance, a comfortable dwelling, which was both rich and homely. However, there was an obvious lack of windows, and no doors leading outside which could be opened by anyone but Laura. She wasn't clear about what would happen if one of us managed to go outside, and I'm not sure she knew herself, save that it would be an unpleasant fate.

I was back on my feet soon, with Laura's care, but I never had time to learn too much about our companions. Scythe was not the only hero aboard, but I was certain that none of the others were from Albion. I will mention no names, as names are power, and I would hate to open any of these people to threats of some form. However, I shall give these enigmas a brief mention:

There was the strapping warrior, raven haired and dark eyed, who sparred with Hammer as his warhound gazed on. I have never since seen a dog of that same breed, and am still not certain what the breed truly is. The warrior was a jovial, friendly young lad, but something had made him sad and experienced sooner than nature had intended. I gather that he had recently lost his family to some form of betrayal.

There was a female mage, pretty and petite as a blonde fairy, who was constantly experimenting with exotic poisons and potions. Laura was often on edge about her experiments, and plastered signs depicting a skull and bones all over the mage's study door. During our stay, Laura had to section off a portion of the – well, I shall call it a vehicle, for lack of a better phrase – when the woman bungled an experiment with some form of compressed energy, which is apparently deadly to organic life. The mage was not unpleasant, but seemed sulky at times, and had a sardonic sense of humour which did not always agree with me.

There was a woman who seemed to be some form of lapsed monk, and could sing like a nightingale.

There were also beings who seemed to belong to races which are commonly believed to be mythological in Albion. There was a female dwarf with shining auburn hair, who was a powerful warrior and claimed she had once been a princess. There was also a male dwarf, bald, shaven, and tattooed, who had once been a vagabond on the streets. There were even elves. One was a blonde, handsome, godlike creature who was reserved, thoughtful, and nearly as proficient as me with a bow and arrow. The other was a female elf, who was striking, dun skinned, and ruby eyed, and was skilled in the disciplines of magic, warcraft, and stealth. She had a fine sense of humour and no little amount of cheek, yet seemed hardened, as if the world she hailed from had shown her little kindness, and she had had to fight for crumb. This particular elf also reminded me of dragons, for some odd reason.

There were others, who I shall not detail now lest the list grow too lengthy. Two, however, deserve a mention: The first was a man, who I saw only once, and who, it seemed, was of as enigmatic a race as Laura, although presumably a different one. Laura never mentioned his name, and simply referred to him as 'the Doctor'. The other was a human mage, with dark eyes and hair, and pale skin, who wore little and spoke less. She seemed at turns shy, hostile, and sensual, and seemed to be Laura's right hand person (Scythe notwithstanding.) She slipped in and out of limbo through use of an enchanted mirror.

The vehicle itself remains a mystery to me. It was bound with similar enchantments to Serenity Farm and other Demon Doors, but it was far more ancient and powerful. It seemed to know exactly what was needed, and altered its shape and size accordingly. Rooms appeared for us which would disappear later and reappear, as we had left them, when we required them. Each guest, presumably, had a room which was theirs alone, and was only corporal when required. The structure seemed, in turns, enormous yet compact, palatial yet cosy. It was an adventure to wander the halls, as one never knew what wonders you would encounter. It even knew if a room had to be disposed of, as it did when the mage released the deadly energy: Soon after Laura's precautions, that section of the vehicle self – destructed, never to be seen again.

My anecdotes suggest that we spent a reasonable period of time with Laura, but, in truth, we spent only a few days in her company. Indeed, what was several days to us, was some ten seconds in Albion. This, among other things that entranced Garth and confused Hammer, was explained on our final day there.

_**Garth**_

Laura turned to face us, pointer in hand, and diagram board at ready. She told us of the mysteries which I had only recently been introduced to, and which my fellow heroes were as yet not aware of. This is what she said:

'I'm sure you are all aware of the multiworlds theory, and the notion that there are Other Reality Based Selves, known as ORBS, in these other worlds. The theory isn't completely accurate, but it is based in a highly secret truth. You see, there are multiple worlds, indeed, multiple universes, but they are never simply copies of another world were history happens slightly differently. Instead, what theorists mistake for alternate histories are, in fact, something I like to call time paradoxes: Time flows from past, to present, to future in the experience of living creatures, but if you are able to step away from the flow of time, everything is actually constantly happening, and everything is happening at once. So, you're always going to be in a reality were someone could be born as a man or woman, or make a different choice to the one they actually make, because you never know what's going to happen before it happens, unless you have certain gifts.'

Laura put up a diagram to illustrate her point before continuing: 'Now, there are two branches of this time flow: Fate, and Destiny. Fate is set in stone; you can't change your fate, or another person's fate, or the ultimate fate of a world. You _can _change destiny, whether by a simple, unconscious choice, or through forewarning and evasion. You can change your own destiny, another's destiny, or an entire people's destiny, but if different people have competing destinies, it's survival of the fittest. For example, it was Sparrow's chosen destiny to kill Lucien, although there were many factors influencing her to follow this path, since she ultimately chose to kill him in their final encounter. It was Sparrow's destiny to marry Bob, since she could have had any other husband, but chose him. It was Fate that Sparrow would win the Crucible, as she was unable to reach the Spire any other way, and, danger aside, she is the most talented contestant they've ever had. However, bear in mind that fate isn't always bad, and destiny isn't always good: it was fated that Theresa would seek out Sparrow, as there were powers at work far greater than Theresa's; but it was destiny that caused Reaver to sell the community of Oakvale to the Shadow Court, since he acted of his own free will, and against all moral standards.'

A new diagram: 'Now, some worlds are, for all intents and purposes, perfect and without corruption, but there are few of these. Once the population of any world becomes corrupt in any way, (as is the case in most worlds), then the trouble begins. It starts when the person, of whatever species they may be, realises that it's possible to kill someone, or not tell the truth, or to steal and be jealous of other people's things. Then, crime is an issue, and any other indiscretion you care to think of. Suddenly, status is important for all the wrong reasons, and people give themselves too much of a good thing, or seek pleasures that will ultimately harm them and their society.'

'And now to the issue that makes all this relevant to you, Sparrow. Generally, a world is corrupted through the influence of demons, or similar entities. Banshees are a relative of these, but nowhere as vile. Jack of Blades, who you will recall from what I've already told all of you, is a demon who took on human form, and even attempted to possess the Hero of Oakvale. His parents, the King and Queen of Blades, are deadlier still, but were, at the time, unable to take on human form. It was these three that sewed discord and disharmony among the early people of Albion, when they were refused worship, as they wanted to be akin to gods. Scythe here was the first Archon, who drove them away with the Sword of Aeons, which is powerful, but sadly, implants a shadow of the demon curse on the wielder: Scythe is, as you have noticed, undead, and fated to suffer hunger, thirst, and inability to sleep, among other things, until the planet on which Albion resides meets its end.'

Sparrow interjected dourly, 'Presumably the Blades are still around.'

Laura nodded: 'Jack of Blades came to Albion and possessed a human in attempt to infiltrate the Heroes' Guild. He was unsuccessful, but the Guild collapsed later on nonetheless. It is because of the Bloodline that he did not succeed. The Blades have been waiting and watching, biding their time until the bloodline fades once again, and cannot stand against their demonic power. They have recently realised that the Bloodline is, conversely, strengthening, and they may never win. So, they've decided to launch their attack now, before it's too late. They may not take on their own form, but are preparing to turn Albion's people against one another, as they did when the world was young. I have no doubt that it was one of them who whispered in Balvornen's ear, and encouraged him to follow his power lust and, well, lust.'

'This is your new task, Sparrow. Defeat the Blades. It is your fate to become Queen of Albion, true, but whether or not Albion is relatively intact by that time is another question entirely.'

I knew what Sparrow would ask next: 'Why is the Bloodline so important if we want to stop the Blades?'

'Because,' Laura replied gently, 'Your Bloodline, which is also mine and Theresa's, are the safeguards put in place to stem the tide of evil if a world falls to temptation. We may not be the salvation of the people, but we can save as many of them as possible.'

Sparrow brooded for a moment. 'And the entity in charge of this … system?'

Laura smiled, 'You can ask Him about it one day.'

**Thanks for reading! Please review with suggestions and ways I can improve.**


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